


Marble Cake

by Turtle_ier



Series: Turtle's MCYT AUs [11]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Thieves, Angst, Denial of Feelings, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Feelings Realization, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Getting Back Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Identity Reveal, Late at Night, Loss of Identity, M/M, New York City, Secret Crush, Secret Identity, Sick Character, Subways, Trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27999405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turtle_ier/pseuds/Turtle_ier
Summary: New York.The subway system was as vast and sprawling as the city itself, and while Sapnap was familiar with the route he took to work, he wasn't familiar with all the people on it. In the sleepless city, Sapnap works the nightshift at a gallery and finds himself in hot water after a series of break ins, but what does that have to do with the person he meets on the train?
Relationships: Clay | Dream/Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: Turtle's MCYT AUs [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875367
Comments: 50
Kudos: 256





	1. Chapter 1

Sapnap was being lulled to sleep by the back-and-forth motion of the train as it travelled between his work and his home, and as the midnight hour drew closer on that Monday evening, the train grew quiet. He’d just finished his last day, and it was good to know he had something new, better, on the horizon. Two days off, and then the introductory day. 

There was a woman, older, who was reading a hardcover book which had the paper sleeve removed, and a man on the other end of the car who had his legs across the walkway and was listening to something, but other than that, he was basically alone. The fluorescent lights flickered as they went underground again, no longer being exposed to the on-off street lights outside and the distant noise of cars, and instead the screeching sound of the wheels against the metal tracks woke him up slightly, although he didn’t open his eyes. The train pulled to a stop, Sapnap held his bag tighter against his chest, and someone got off the train. Then someone else got on. 

They sat two or three seats away, by the sounds of it, and on the opposite side of the car. The doors closed behind them, and as Sapnap felt himself doze off again, the train began to move. 

It trundled and creaked, turning each corner in the tunnel as if it was trying to lose someone chasing it, and the person opposite rustled through their bag for something like they were looking for their saviour and they had just lost it. Something heavy came out of the bag and onto the chair next to them (dangerous move, given the area), then a water bottle, and then they swore. 

Or he swore, since Sapnap actually opened his eyes at that point. 

He was blonde, but it was a dirty-blonde more so than the bright, yellow-blonde that some people were, and instead of wearing something normal for the time of year like a coat or a denim jacket he wore a leather jacket, black, with an emerald green T-shirt underneath. His legs were tucked beneath his chair. 

Sapnap tried not to stare as the stranger put the heavy thing (it was wrapped in bubble wrap) into his bag, and did the same when the water bottle disappeared too, and the other man zipped up his backpack as if nothing had occurred. And, yeah, maybe Sapnap was just nosey, because really nothing had. 

And the guy got off the train at the next stop, so it was whatever. It’s not like Sapnap remembered him or anything. 

No, really, he didn’t. 

The grandeur of the gallery wasn't lost on Sapnap, but he could hardly focus on the artwork as much as he was paying attention to the architecture. 

He had always been more of a fan of sculptures than paintings, anyway, but the way the ceiling arched and curved was like nothing he had seen before. It was set in an old brownstone apartment, but the man who ran the gallery had knocked the walls out between two apartments to expand, and the space and light it granted was huge. Not to mention, the expansion into what was once a back garden made the building feel echoey, like Sapnap wasn't supposed to be there, following around his new manager in the after-hours. 

They passed a sculpture of a salmon, one as red and vibrant as the real thing, which thrashed out of the glass water it had been made in. Sapnap looked at it as he passed, before turning his attention to the manager as he talked about something actually relevant. 

“And over here,” his new manager was saying, a sharp looking woman who stood a few inches taller than him on account of the heels, “Is the main control room.”

Behind a plain looking door in the gallery was a dark room with a thousand TV screens, all hanging above a desk which held its own monitor, keyboard and mouse. A computer tower lingered below the desk, only just out of sight, and the wall behind the chair was littered with post-it notes; ‘2.30pm tomorrow – dentist’, ‘bread’, ‘pick Millie up’ and the like. 

The room smelt like stale cigarettes. There were no windows, but a clock hung on the wall beside the door and it ticked loudly. In any other room it would have been quiet, but in there, it was loud. 

Whoever had worked here before had a life, then, or maybe the hollow shell of one. Night work wasn't for everyone, hell, it wasn't even really for him, but money was money and the owner of the gallery was apparently rich enough to own the place and all the works inside. 

“Yes, this will be your office,” the manager said, holding the door open to Sapnap, and he took it as an invitation to go inside, “there isn’t a uniform but please dress professionally. You may not be in the eyes of the public during the day, but this is still a place of business and, god forbid, you may need to talk to the police at some point.”

“Right,” Sapnap, struggling not to cough with all the dust and stale smelling smoke, “That’s fine.”

“Would you like to discuss the job further in my office?” The manager said, stepping aside again, and Sapnap narrowly escaped the room with his life and lungs intact. He cleared his throat, and she seemed to notice. She slid the doorstop beneath the door to keep it open and led him away.

“The pay is $16.45 per hour, which is more than the security guard on day shift, but if you ever need time off or wish to switch a shift with him for any reason please get it approved with both of us before organising anything.”

“Of course,” Sapnap said, following closely. 

“And I don't know if you have heard,” She turned around to face him, “but some private galleries have been facing some thefts recently. One of our precautions against this is hiring you, but we’ve installed some new cameras on the doors and the windows of the building as well.”

“Thefts?” Sapnap asked, “What do you mean?”

“Private works have been stolen from galleries in Castlehill, Melrose and Hunts Point, so I’m sure you can imagine that we’re anticipating a similar kind of burglary on our collection here.”

“Right,” Sapnap said, “And the police haven't caught these guys yet?”

She breathed out heavily, “Not for lack of trying. They always slip away very smoothly for a group that doesn't appear to own a vehicle. I’ve seen the footage. They work smart.” 

“How smart?”

Sapnap and the manager turned around a corner and she pressed the keypad at a door at the back of the building, which was hidden behind a curtain. She shoved the door open with a click and went through first, holding it open behind her for him to come through too, and he let it close gently as she began to climb the stairs. Her high shoes clicked with each step up, and it echoed throughout the stairwell. 

“It seems that they are _very_ smart. Name every trick in the book and they’ve never used it, or used the most obvious one that it makes you question how on earth we missed it.” 

The stairwell was lined on one side with old, single glazed windows, which had wood along each side and all the pieces of glass in them were only around five inches square. They were tiled though, with the latches firmly locked. It was too high to reach them from the floor, anyway.

“Any examples?”

“Well,” she said, coming to a stop at the top of the stairs. Sapnap felt the cold before he noticed what she was looking at. She continued, “That might be a good example.”

A circular hole in one of the panes of glass, and the latch opened. It was high up enough that they must not have come from below, but above, and the breeze came through the room as if it knew that it wasn't supposed to be there. His manager sighed. 

“I’ll call the boss. Come with me.”

Yes officer, it’s my first time in this part of the city.

Yes officer, I haven't come to the gallery before.

Yes officer, I’m just being shown around.

No officer, I didn't come here with the intent to steal something.

No officer, I’m not an art thief. 

It was that guy again. 

The one with the weird thing in his bag. Mr. Package. 

But not like that. 

Sapnap wasn’t paying attention, he was never paying enough attention, and he held his head as it throbbed with the headache he had been trying to ignore all afternoon. Such was life; headaches, and the time without headaches which you never realised you could miss. 

It was the cold wind, Sapnap just kept telling himself, and now that he was out of it the headache would go soon too, but it still throbbed, it still ached, and he still waited for it to leave him when the other man, the green shirt and leather jacket guy, Mr. Package (stop calling him that) came onto the subway. 

His hair was wet, Sapnap did somehow manage to notice, and it stuck to his forehead like the worlds shittiest combover. Not that it was a combover, but Sapnap couldn’t think of anything else to compare it to… David Beckham? No, this dude wasn’t handsome enough. Charming, but not handsome. Maybe he was a Chris Pine. Maybe he wasn’t. 

Looking at the other person’s wet hair reminded him of how he couldn't remember if it had been raining when he was being questioned outside the gallery by the police, but hey, what can you do. The guy might have just had a shower or something, or gone for a run before picking up the thing he was holding. 

He was carrying with him another bubble wrapped package today, and Sapnap had a bit of an inkling that he travelled later at night to stop it from being bashed against other commuters, which made sense. He didn’t think that travelling with precious, oddly shaped cargo on a train might be unwise at any point, but people were weird, their motives unable to be understood, and Sapnap just had to settle for the best excuse he could think of. 

The guy noticed Sapnap looking at him, which, great, totally the opposite of what Sapnap wanted on the earliest morning train possible. It technically wasn't Monday anymore, but since he hadn't slept it still felt like it. The guy had been on the train both ways. 

As Sapnap glanced away though, the other guy got up and moved away, taking the item with him, and Sapnap didn't raise his eyes to watch him go. 

First, second, and third day on the job passed uneventfully. The gallery was motionless and still as Sapnap drank his over brewed coffee or energy drinks to keep himself awake, and between glancing at the various security feeds he did the daily sudoku, crossword, and word-search. He ate the sandwich slowly; he had picked it up from the cafe opposite the gallery before it closed, and on his way home from his shift he picked up whatever had just been baked from the same place, ignoring the way the sun came down in thick slices over the landscape. He got out an hour late, the other guy caught in traffic. It was getting lighter by the day, given that the shortest day had passed, and he hated it. 

Longer days meant less sleep for him, and it was already difficult enough to get to sleep when it was so busy outside his apartment window with garbage trucks and drug deals going on in the alley below. Not to mention the people above him had been obsessed with the same album since November, and it was getting to the point where Sapnap knew the artist and songs by name.

But as he got off the subway and it trundled off into the tunnel behind him, Sapnap looked up at the station and didn't even get to blink in the terrible lighting before an arm shoved him into a tiled pillar. His sandwich fell to the floor in a heap. 

“Your money,” the arm, or probably the person, actually, demanded. 

Wow, there was a knife there, too. 

“Ugh,” Sapnap said, blinking now because he didn't have the chance to before, and his hand pushed at the chest before him without thinking. “Dude.”

The knife came closer. 

“Your money, idiot – “

“Hey! I’m recording!” 

The voice came from the other side of the station, on a platform separated by the tracks and two sets of stairs, and Sapnap tilted his head to look at the blonde guy, holding a phone and a large rectangular package on the opposite platform. The thug holding the knife snorted, but the arm pressed against his neck seemed to lose its determination. Without another word, his assailant fled up the stairs and out of the subway. 

Sapnap looked at his sandwich, a tuna and rye which was already being enjoyed by the rats. Damn. 

“You alright, man?”

The person on the other platform was still there, the phone no longer pointing at Sapnap but at the train tracks instead, and through the daze of a nine-hour work night and a train journey, Sapnap could hardly notice anything about them other than the fact that he had definitely seen that guy around. 

“Yeah,” he yelled back, but before he could say anything else, the train came along the opposite side of the tracks. Sapnap watched, leaning against the tile pillar, as it stopped and he could see through the glass that the other guy had gotten onto it. He waved, and with a weird feeling inside him Sapnap waved back. The train pulled away.

It was just Sapnap and the rats on the station platform, his sandwich dead at his feet. 

“That guy didn't actually hurt you, did he?”

It was night four on the job, although technically night four hadn't started yet, and Sapnap looked up at the blonde guy carrying a small package of bubble wrap in both hands. He wore a pair of ragged grey jeans, ones which disappeared into a pair of snow-stained red converse and he had the leather jacket on from before. The main difference today compared to when Sapnap first saw him was the scarf, which was blue, and the shirt which was just from some generic band. The guy sat on the bench opposite Sapnap, and despite him not playing any music, Sapnap still had to pull out one of his earphones before he could respond. 

“No, no. I’m surprised you recognise me, honestly.” 

“He had a knife,” the guy said, as if it would change Sapnap’s answer. 

“I’m fine.”

“Alright. Sucks about your sandwich.”

Sapnap chucked, pulling out the other earphone when he realised that this guy on the subway might actually be one of the sane ones rather than a weirdo that you often got. It might have been too early to tell, but sue him, he hadn't had a good conversation in ages. 

“It is. It was one of those from _Sally’s_ on 64th, you know the one?”

“Does it have the marble cake?”

“Huh?”

The guy seemed to catch himself, explaining, “There’s two _Sally’s_ , one on 64th and one on 52nd, but only one of them has the marble cake. Best in the city, I swear. I’m not familiar with the rest of the menu at either.”

“Dunno,” Sapnap said, “It’s just near where I work. Maybe I'll ask, if you say it’s so good. I’m more a fan of the sandwiches though.”

“Sweet isn't for everyone,” the guy said, “hey, by the way, since we seem to catch the same trains a bunch I figured I’d ask. What’s your name?”

“Call me Sapnap. You?”

The guy chuckled, “We're going with nicknames?”

“Can never be too careful.”

“Understandable. You can call me Dream.”

“Cool.”

Sapnap wanted desperately to ask questions, but he couldn't just ask ‘what do you want from me?’ or ‘why are you talking to me?’ without seeming rude. If the guy was a weirdo, it would be easier to be rude, but since he was decent, he felt bad. 

“But seriously, I wanted to ask if you wanted the video I took, just in case you wanted to press charges.”

“Huh?”

“You know, give it to the police or something.”

“Yeah, but,” Sapnap paused, debating if he should continue before he continued, “We’d need to exchange numbers or something.” 

“That’s… yeah. Only if you want it.”

Sapnap shrugged, and the subway twisted around an unseen bend in the tunnel, the wheels on the track screeching as it approached the next station – Sapnap’s stop.

“Hey, listen, this is my stop. If we see each other again we can swap details, yeah?”

The guy, or Dream, leaned back where he was sitting a little bit, his smile calm but tired in the sickly light of the subway car. He tucked his legs in as Sapnap got up and they exchanged a small, polite smile as the subway pulled into the stop. He dismounted, the train departed, and Sapnap watched it go.

The sun had disappeared behind the city when he left the subway station. No more daylight for the night shift worker, he guessed, but he had time for daylight tomorrow. It was his day off, after all. 

Fifteen streets over, ten blocks, an art studio had been broken into and five works stolen. Unknown number of burglars, but footprints suggest more than two. Work sizes varied – 15x12 inch watercolour on canvas, 20x21 inch watercolour on canvas, 3x4 feet acrylic on canvas, 6x9 feet watercolour on canvas, and 5x6x10 inch sculpture, glass. It is believed the criminals came from the roof, opened a window left on latch for ventilation, and left through the front door. Security footage was wiped after they had entered the building, cutting off fifteen minutes before they are suspected to have entered, and continuing fifteen minutes later. Unknown vehicle or means of leaving the area. Discovered 8.37am, Saturday January 16th. Police called immediately. No criminals found on scene. No fingerprints. 

Long day, or night, but the package of marble cake was warm in his bag and smelt heavily of nutmeg and cinnamon from the still warm glaze _Sally’s_ used to ice it. Sally’s on 64th, burglary on 49th, gallery on 65th. Funny. 

The subway swayed and early morning commuters took some seats. Sapnap stood, because the long shift had taken his will to be awake and wringed it, and sitting meant falling asleep and finding himself in the train depot. Again. 

He breathed, in, out. He gripped the overhead bar like a lifeline, and it was in the fact that it was one of the only things keeping him upright with the weight of the night holding him down. No one looked at him, even as he stood, and Sapnap let the fluorescent feeling wash over him. 

“It was good,” Sapnap said, sitting down next to the not quite stranger on the train, settling in for his journey to work. 

Monday, stressful weekend dealing with friends, ‘friends’, and family alike, but still a rewarding feeling as he sunk into the hard plastic seat and ignored the other definitely-strangers around him. The handles above them swung back and forth like sand trying to resist the pull of the sea, and one of the windows opposite to them had graffiti painted across it in lettering which Sapnap couldn't read, and yet the whole atmosphere felt calm.

“Huh?” Dream said, pulling the package (square, cardboard, covered in bubble wrap) in front of him again, and he pulled the headphones off his head, “what did you say?”

“Oh, the marble cake. It was pretty good.”

Dream nodded, as if Sapnap had told him the news about the universe everyone was looking for. He spoke up after a moment when another passenger brushed past the bench they sat on.

“You go for a whole loaf or a slice?” Dream asked, looking over at him but indirectly, as if he was being secretive with the information. 

“Just a slice, it was big enough on its own.” he said. 

“Wise move. The loaf is always too much for me… and then I eat it in one sitting anyway.” 

The train swayed, taking off from the stop Sapnap had embarked at and trundling along the track like a prancing pony. He could feel himself shift with the movement, but Dream didn't seem to mind their thighs being pressed against one another, nor how humid the car had become with all the breath. It felt like the known universe was in the car with them, coexisting, just living at the same time. Such was the problem with transport in winter, and with everyone in the train packed in like sardines, it eventually became too crowded to move. Even with their seats, Sapnap pressed his thighs together as close as they could go, and Dream held his package and whatever was inside it to his chest. 

But then the wheels screeched, with Sapnap being shoved into Dream’s side and the people standing needing to step backwards to steady themselves as it lurched, trundled, and came to a stop. No one in the train seemed to say anything, looking between one another as if someone inside could tell them what had happened, and the darkness of the tunnel outside did nothing to help them decipher what was happening either. All motion, in less than a minute, had ceased.

The speaker system in the train crackled, and instead of the automated voice calling whichever stop they were supposed to be arriving at, the voice of the subway driver washed over them. 

“Apologies, folks, but something has come up further along the line. Another train is stuck in the next station, it seems like technical difficulties, so please just sit tight until the train starts to move again.”

The person over the speaker went on, mentioning that they shouldn't force the doors open and whatnot, but Sapnap could only focus on the sickly feeling of realisation, since he was definitely going to be late for work if the train didn't start up again. He couldn't even get off and catch a taxi or something, he just had to sit around in the train car with fifty or so other people and wait it out like the rest of them. 

“I’m going to be late,” Sapnap whispered. Somewhere in the car a baby started crying, and Sapnap just let his head fall back against the window behind him so that he could better stare at the ceiling and debate how he should either escape or die. 

“Yeah,” Dream said, “Me too.”

“You going to work or…?”

“Just to meet friends. You?”

“My boss is going to kill me. Or the guy on shift before me. Honestly, I might just take it if that kid doesn't quiet down.”

Dream shifted, their thighs brushing together again. Someone nearby coughed. 

“Yeah, I don't think my friends will be too pleased with me being late, either.”

“You just going for the night?”

“Yeah. I stay over sometimes. I’ve got to get this,” he shifted the bubble wrapped package towards Sapnap, “to someone further up the city for tomorrow morning. They don't mind, so it’s good.” 

“What is that thing anyway?” Sapnap asked, “Like, don't tell me if you don't want to, but you seem to carry those fragile looking packages every time I see you.”

The kid up the train kept screaming. The people on the bench shoved Sapnap further into Dream’s space to make room for an elderly man, and they ended up almost sharing a seat. The lights flickered off for less than a second before coming back on, but even in the cramped confines of the train car, Sapnap couldn't help but feel as if he and Dream were in their own little bubble. It was an odd realisation, mostly because of how he and Dream were essentially still strangers, and yet the other man didn't seem to do anything to dissuade the thought. 

“Just… art stuff. I sell it.”

“Oh, cool. Is it yours?”

“Yeah, make it myself and all that.” 

“Damn, that’s cool. Hey, have you heard about all those art gallery break-ins?”

Dream shifted his feet, one of them going onto Sapnap’s, and while the other man tried to move it back, he found that he couldn't. The floor of the subway was just too cramped with bags, shoes and the stroller that the screaming kid was in, but as Dream seemed to get more and more uncomfortable in his seat, the train lurched, groaned, squealed and began to move. Some of the weary people on the train cheered slightly, and finally the child shut up. 

“Oh thank god,” Dream said, and he chuckled and looked down at their feet, his fringe hiding his face, “I was thinking we were going to boil alive down here before they managed to fix this thing.” 

“Tell me about it,” Sapnap chucked, “Just my luck that it happens immediately after I get on, huh?”

“You’re a curse, it’s official.” 

They laughed quietly, and as the people on the late shift got on and off the train, they were able to spread apart a little bit more, their thighs still touching but no longer pressed together out of necessity. It meant something, probably. Sapnap couldn't really focus on the train though, too enthralled with the heady air and steady sway of life to care. 

“It’s funny how we keep meeting like this,” Dream said as he sat down. 

Sapnap didn't even so much as twitch as the other man came beside him, and the only movement he made intentionally was moving his bag from the seat to his lap to make more room. Dream shuffled up beside him, holding a large, flat, and bubble wrapped rectangle in front of him and resting it on his bright red converse. Sapnap’s feet ached inside his shoes from the long wait on the platform, but it felt good to relax after his long, arduous night at work. The sun had yet to come up over New York, and yet the city that never slept kept buzzing. He wasn't sure how it found the effort. 

“Mm-hmm,” Sapnap hummed, his head still leant back against the glass of the train car. The window opposite had some graffiti scrawled on it, no doubt the vandal’s name or something, but to Sapnap’s untrained eye it looked almost like it said ‘spaghetti’. Maybe it did. People were passionate about weird things these days. 

“Long day at work?”

“Tiring. It’s funny how doing basically nothing wears you out, huh?”

“Uh-huh. I got to have a nap but it’s nowhere near enough to keep me going.”

“Your boss lets you nap?” 

“Freelance. I do what I like, technically.”

“Huh. Maybe I should try that.”

Dream leaned back in his seat too, letting his legs drop apart so that the package he was holding could rest against his knees. An unusual quiet sunk into them, seeping into their flesh and bones. Sapnap should have probably been used to the motions of the train by now, but even still he couldn't help but feel them with every inch of his body, like being rocked in a cradle and being sent off to sleep.

“Dude, it’s your stop next.”

Dream’s elbow went into his side. His head slipped off the other man’s shoulder falling face first into his arms before he regained the mobility he had lost in sleep. What a horrible feeling, realising that he had a wet patch on his cheek. What an even worse realisation, seeing the same wetness on the leather jacket Dream wore. And how terrible, seeing the other man’s smug grin. 

“Uh,” he said, and cringed internally at the sound of his sleep-seeped voice, “Shit, uhm. Thanks.”

“No problem,” Dream said, and when he looked down his hair covered his face so that Sapnap couldn't see his expression again. Both a blessing and a curse, and Sapnap didn't think about it as he left without a word. 

He didn't think about it as he watched the subway trundle away.

He didn't think about it all night long. 

How many futures had he squandered by not taking the chance given to him on a silver plate or subway seat? How many times could his stomach sway in tandem with the handles on the pole above him? How many times could he order pierogi from the really good polish place around the block before he realised that it always gave him food poisoning?

Mystery on mystery, and Sapnap couldn't ever hope to know himself, let alone the ambiguous secrets of the city he lived in. From rats on rain pipes, bridges over pretzel stands, the lady around the corner with the crystal skulls, and the dude down the road with the shotgun who always talked about the jungle as if it was in the room. From the strange hill he intended to die on, to yesterday's soup, bygones at the deli and refusing to answer the soap-boxer ‘amen’. Spirit house, apparently, and electric eels. Diamond rings, unseen thing, a Parisian expat and neon lights. When had he last seen a leafed tree? A dog that wasn't stray? A bird that wasn't a grinning rock dove? When was the last time he had called his family? When had they last called him? 

Ill, sickly, he yearned for his home, but the home wasn't there anymore. Sometimes he questioned if that was even his home in the first place. No more family farms – they were urban lodgers now. The urban jungle was here too, now, endless and his home. The dripping ceiling, the peeling walls, the rusty lock, were his. Technically. He didn't own himself. He didn't own his health, his home, his phone or his job. Nothing was his. His stomach acted like a wild animal clawing to be freed. 

Pierogi got him delirious. ‘Pizza Alley’ played in the room above. Sapnap tried to sleep through the steady bass; mixed results. 

Gallery, break in, his. 

Suspected 5am, some footage remained but no clear faces. Suspected three males, black clothing, no features. Five-foot something, five-foot something, six-foot two, on account of the footage of him stealing a painting. 6x2 feet, portrait, acrylic on canvas. Another work, gouache on wood, 30x20 inch. A sculpture, ‘roll of tape’, 5x2x5 inch, silver, diamond encrusted. Approximate value, sixteen million.

Yes officer, I have been working there for about a month.

Yes officer, I was here the night of the other break in.

Yes officer, I’ve been off sick these past couple of days.

Yes officer, I was supposed to be on shift.

No officer, I didn’t apply here to get an insider’s view.

No officer, I’m not an art thief. 

He’d have to talk to Bad about these other officers, about all these questions. He could hardly answer the officer they sent around his heavy tongue and paracetamol-slowed brain, and he could tell she was impatient with his answers. They could have at least sent the ‘good’ to Bad’s bad. Inconsiderate, but he had bigger things to worry about. The officer clearly didn’t like what she was hearing.

Crazy. He got fifteen bucks an hour and the owner of the gallery could splash cash for the sculptor to make another shit sculpture. No thought about it. 

And here he was, taking the subway to work with a stomach of butterflies and lead balloons because if he took more time off he wouldn't have a job to go to anymore. So he huddled, cold and hot, hot and cold, sweating and shivering, and hoped to God that he didn't throw up. Again. The cereal was already half gone, so what was left? 

“You're not looking too hot,” a voice came from his side. 

He might have had a response if he wasn't clutching his stomach tight enough to cause a wheeze through his teeth. 

“Dude, Sapnap,” Dream said, putting a hand on his back and rubbing it in a way that Sapnap could only assume was comforting. His body, his everything, was giving mixed messages. He couldn't concentrate. 

“Yeah?” he managed to spit out as the lights in the car flickered. The people up the train paid them no mind, but Dream certainly did. 

“You look like hell.”

“Feel it.” 

“Why are you out of the house? Are you going home?”

“No, work.”

Sapnap paused as a wave of shivers passed over him, and he shook like a leaf in a strong western wind. Oncoming storm, perhaps, but the sway of the train did nothing to settle him. The fluorescents burnt his eyes and skin as if it was the sun and he could drown in the amount of saliva his body was putting out. Gross. 

But it was his stop. 

So he mumbled a weakened, “See ya,” and stood, nearly braining himself on one of the many hard surfaces of the train, and he would have if Dream didn't grab him. Dream helped Sapnap haul himself off the subway and onto the station platform, both of them ignoring the concerned or bemused looks from commuters travelling home. On the station edge, Dream poured him into one of the benches just in time for Sapnap to lean forward, open his mouth, and vomit. Thankfully, Dream had stepped back. No shoes were harmed. 

“Dude,” Dream said, but instead of disgust it was worry, “Dude, you really shouldn't be going anywhere right now.”

Sapnap just panted. He felt like he had run a mile in a minute. His chest was aching now, but at least his stomach had stopped doing cartwheels. The cheerio’s were not so cheerful coming up, as if they were any good going down either. He didn’t taste it going in either direction.

“Sorry,” Sapnap, as if he should be the one apologising, “I have to go.”

“Home?”

“Work.”

“You do night shift?”

“Yeah.” 

“Can you call in?”

“Nope.” 

Dream was quiet for a minute, and Sapnap didn't look up from his ex-breakfast. If he was paying even a minimal amount less attention, then he might have assumed Dream had just left him on the platform and gone to do something else, something more important than looking after someone who he didn't even really know. But when Sapnap eventually smoothed back his hair and was able to tell the difference between the tiled poles keeping the station up and the horrible concrete floor, he looked over to where he had last seen Dream and stopped. 

The other man had a hand near his mouth, looking down at Sapnap on the bench with evident concern on his face, and when he saw Sapnap looking at him he pulled the bag off his back to go through it. Wordlessly, Dream handed him a metal bottle and undid the lid for him. 

“Drink,” Dream commanded, and Sapnap did as he was told. 

It was just water, but it tasted sweet with the afterburn of the vomit. When Sapnap stopped for breath, he handed it back to Dream, but he just pushed it back towards Sapnap with an open palm.

“Keep it for now, yeah?” He said, “I don't want you caught without it. Are you able to stand up?”

Sapnap nodded but made no move, but Dream offered him a hand anyway. He swayed, stumbled, and stayed standing. Dream made a weak cheering noise, but even with the small success he put an arm around Sapnap’s shoulders and helped guide him into the evening air outside, where the black snow on the roadside waited and the streetlights glowed amber as if they were warning them to prepare to stop. Dream guided Sapnap out of the station and slightly along the street before stopping, and he held Sapnap out in front of him in both arms, like he was assessing the other man. Maybe he was. Sapnap could have died in those arms and it would have been better than many of the alternatives. 

“Which way?” Dream asked, “I’m going to get you a sandwich and maybe something else to drink–“

“Dude, no,” Sapnap said, putting a hand up to cover Dream’s, and he cast his gaze to the road in embarrassment. 

No one was looking at them though. It was their own little pocket on the side of the street, where Dream’s hair glowed yellow in the light and Sapnap could feel his sweat sticking to his skin like the base of a snail. 

“No, I’m going to because you look like you’re going to die at, like, any moment.”

Sapnap just sighed. Dream’s voice reminded him simultaneously of his mother and his ex-boyfriend’s. No nonsense, no argument. Just do as they say and not as they do. He got itchy just thinking about it, even if it was a totally different situation to both. So Sapnap nodded, and he pointed over Dream’s shoulder. 

“65th,” he mumbled, and Dream pulled him against his side again. 

Which was nice. If he could think about it more he might not have put his hand around Dream’s waist, but all he could focus on was putting one foot in front of the other and avoiding the cracks in the pavement as if they would curse him further, but he could never be too careful. So past the sprawling pizza parlours, through the February cold, and around the first corner, then the third apartment block they saw, and continuing alongside a shop advertising vitamins, another with an awning, and Sapnap kind of forgot where he was until they appeared outside _Sally’s_ on 64th street. It was just closing, and the woman inside who was haloed in the light from the refrigerated counter smiled and waved at Dream as he deposited Sapnap outside. 

With a stern, “wait here,” Dream disappeared inside the bakery and went up to the counter. Sapnap was left shivering against the wall, both thankful and cursing the cold brick against his back, which he could still feel through his coat. The lights on the shop opposite, a tattoo parlour or a restaurant (they both tended to have the same kind of hipster-aesthetic going on) cast a brilliant neon pink over the wet street and on Sapnap’s clothes, and while he didn't mind its brightness, he minded the way it made his blue jeans look muddy. 

He really was delirious if he thought he was in any position to comment on fashion, nevertheless he thought about it and chuckled to himself, as he was in the all-blue outfit required for his job. Blue jeans, blue cotton jacket done up beneath his black coat, and one of those skin-clinging white T-shirts beneath it. It was the kind of thing any hot workman would wear in a music video, if not for the shoddy badge and the hat he had to wear while in the building. Thankfully, he wasn't wearing them now, since he probably would have sweated through the hat an hour ago. 

But Dream had come back now with two paper-wrapped somethings in his hands and a steaming cup of something else. It smelt like mint, and maybe it was, but Dream didn't let Sapnap hold it until the other man had shoved the two packages of food (he assumed) into both of the pockets on Sapnap’s coat. Only then did he hand the warm paper cup over to Sapnap and let him see that, yes, it was some kind of minty tea. 

“They only had green and mint,” Dream said, and Sapnap looked up at him when he realised the other man’s tone. Nervous, maybe. 

“Thank you, dude. How much do I owe you?”

“Nah. Nothing.”

“Dude – “

“It was less than five bucks, Sapnap. It’s cool. Don't worry about it.” 

Dream stood there awkwardly for a second, his hands in his pockets as he watched Sapnap put both of his hands around the cup of tea. In the ‘fresh’ air of the street, Sapnap did have to admit that he felt a little better, but that was no guarantee of how he would feel at work. 

“Do you want me to walk you to your job?” Dream asked, concern evident on his face. Sapnap didn't say anything, and he cursed himself internally, but nodded anyway. 

Being dependent on others was never a good look, but it didn't feel any less sweet when Dream started helping him over to 65th street again, to where his gallery waited impatiently for him to arrive. He was still early, but to his manager, apparently being five minutes early was as good as being ten minutes late. 

Hand on hip, hip in hand, Dream and Sapnap walked the streets of New York in darkness. 

His sweat was a fine layer of stickiness on his forehead by the time he left work, but it hadn't been as bad since he washed his face in the bathroom sink at around 3am. There had been no more incidents that night, and other than the sound of an ambulance siren at around four in the morning, it had been near deathly quiet in the building. The cameras had panned left and right without problem. No one came up the steps to the front door of the repurposed brownstone apartments, and the most interesting part was when he was trying to decide what could have been casting a shadow that looked almost like an owl. It was a fire extinguisher, but the owl-impression it gave off stuck with him. 

And his phone, which he technically wasn't allowed to use on shift but used anyway, was silent all night despite the number he had given away as he went into the building. 

He didn't really think about it until he left early the next morning, his coat firmly done up and hat backwards on his head, when he saw Dream leaning against one of the pillars at the bottom of the steps to the gallery. The other man didn't look up as Sapnap left, but he also didn't startle when Sapnap appeared beside him. Dream smiled, putting away his phone.

“I was just about to message you,” he said. 

It was still technically dark out since the other guy had arrived on time for his shift that day, but Sapnap could tell that dawn was upon them, and at the very end of the street some of the buildings were lightening with the rising sun. The sky was a dark grey, like a blanket thrown across the city, and it seemed the snow wasn't done with them yet. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Sapnap asked, “You don't have to, I’m feeling better.”

“Did you eat?” Dream asked, already standing up straight. 

Sapnap must have realised that Dream was taller than him before that point, but it was the first time he properly noticed. His ridiculous red converse almost glowed with how bright they were in comparison to the rest of the street, and yet, Sapnap didn’t have to make a point of ignoring them. 

“I had the sandwich,” Sapnap said. 

He didn't want to admit he had basically inhaled it, squishing it down between his hand and the paper so that he could get it down quicker, and that the tea was cold but still the most refreshing thing he had drunk all week. Sourdough, turkey slices, cranberry sauce that was more like a gift from God, and a handful of spinach topped with mayonnaise and another slice of bread. Dream knew how to order, it seemed, and the tuna on rye he had ordered the other day had officially been put to shame. Rightfully so. 

“That’s good. How are you feeling?”

“Better. You don't need to, like, walk me to my house or anything. If you’re just getting the same train then that’s cool.” 

“That’s fine by me. You’re alright, right? No more shakes?”

“Nah.”

“Cool.” 

Dream didn't have to guide him along with his hand anymore as they returned to the subway station on 72nd street, and while Sapnap didn't exactly mourn the loss of the contact, there was still the undeniable wish for it to be there. It was a bit like only ever swimming in a pool and then being thrown into the ocean. Not necessarily awful, but an unwelcome surprise. Wait.

Not that Dream not touching him was an unwelcome surprise. No. He just. 

Fuck. 

“Bad, I’m going to kill myself,” Sapnap declared when the person on the other end of the phone picked up. 

There was a pause, before a voice that definitely wasn't Bad shouted away from the receiver, “Bad!” and then to Sapnap, “He’s coming.” 

He heard the mobile hit a surface, from the sound of it, plastic.

A pause. Sapnap looked at the water stain on his ceiling, and then to the poster which covered up another one right next to it. In the 6x6 foot space that was his bedroom, he could hardly fit anything more than his bed and a chest of draws in, and yet he’d managed a vinyl box and a record player alongside them, as well as a mirror nailed to the wall. Every piece of wall had been covered in a poster, picture, or magazine cut out and stuck on with Blu-tack, but despite the many flaws of his little apartment, he took every measure possible to make it feel less like a place stealing far too much money and more like a home. The kitchen sink still leaked, and the shower did too, and he could definitely hear the person downstairs when they brought someone home, but it was as his as he could make it. 

A rustle came from the other side of the phone and a voice came through. “Hello?” it said, “Who is this?”

“Bad, it’s Sapnap.” 

“Sappy!” 

The man’s endless enthusiasm never ceased to amaze Sapnap, but at that current moment all he could do in response was rub at his eyes. A general lack of good sleep and the fact that he was still recovering from an illness was catching up to him, and he longed for the days off he’d missed shivering and in delirium. In the golden glow of morning, Sapnap spoke up again. 

“I have a problem, Bad.”

“Aw no,” he said it in a way that felt like it needed an exclamation point on the end, but Sapnap refused to consider it, “What’s up Sappy? Is it your new job? Or, wait, yeah George said you were sick, right? Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah, just tired now. My problem isn't to do with those, though.”

“Uh-huh?”

There was a pause on the line which Sapnap knew he was supposed to fill, but instead he threw an arm over his eyes, letting the arch of his nose nestle into his elbow. Another moment, and Sapnap found it in him to speak up.

“I’ve met someone,” he said and regretted it.

“Oh!” The voice definitely needed the exclamation point now, “Who is it? Are they cute? Handsome? Come on, give me something!” 

“You sound twelve.”

“Maybe I am, but at least I'm not Mr Midlife Crisis like you. Now come on. Who is it?” 

“I haven’t met them as in, like, _met them_ , but I know them, and, I don't know.” 

“Anyone I know?”

“Probably not.”

“Do you know their name?”

Sapnap paused. The person above him put some music on, and Sapnap could tell immediately that it was ‘ _The Four Winds’_. Not a bad choice, but still an unwelcome one when he was trying to think. 

“They, well, he gave me a nickname. Dream.”

“Dream?”

“Uh-huh.”

Bad was quiet for a moment. The lyrics started in the song above him, and someone on Bad’s end of the line was talking in the same room as him. A siren went past outside, and for all Sapnap could tell it might not have had a vehicle attached to it. The city continued its act outside his window but when the piss-coloured curtain was closed he could pretend it didn't exist for a while. Just the occasional noise. If the tree fell in the forest and no one was around to hear it, did it do a little dance on the way down? Did the deer hold a ceremony to mourn it? Did the city that never slept sleep when he was asleep too? 

“That’s an interesting name, Sappy,” Bad said with something in his voice. 

“Nickname,” Sapnap said again, “Like mine. Like yours. Why? You heard of it?”

“A lead,” he said, and something like a microwave beeped in the background. 

“Are you at work now?”

“Yeah, lunch break. You should be asleep, shouldn't you?”

“Neighbours, you know how it is.”

Bad didn't pause before poking Sapnap with a question.

“What can you tell me about this Dream guy?”

“I thought you were on lunch?”

“I am, Zak is too. I can put you on speaker?”

“Sure, whatever.”

“‘Kay, one sec.”

Another pause. Bad must have muted the microphone, and Sapnap was looking at the golden sun across his ceiling again, at the way it seeped through the curtains like an infection and hit the face of his ‘The Killers’ poster just enough to highlight the eyes. His mind was slow, slogged with illness and weariness from the day before. The floor above him put on ‘Gauze’ and the drums shook the room. Sapnap could feel his teeth itch, his sludge return to brain as he formed a plan, and Bad came onto the phone again.

“Alright, Sappy. Depending on what you say we might need to take you in for some questions, if that's cool?”

Sapnap could hear someone else on the other side; Zak, probably. The ‘good’ to their pairing, despite what some people, including him, thought. There was no more hum of the microwave, no more clink of the lights in the background, just the two breaths. No, three. 

“Is it just you and Zak, Bad?”

Pause. The breathing stopped as the microphone cut off, and then it came on again. 

“We have someone in here to record it, if that’s alright.”

“Sure.”

“So if you’re ready to begin, what does this ‘Dream’ look like?”

“Darker hair,” he began, “brown eyes, a bit tanned but I think he’s white, just from somewhere sunny, maybe. He had, well, he kept wearing these Timbs which looked a size too big. I’ve only seen him off the subway like twice, so I think he’s around the same height, but don't quote me on that..”

“You met him on the subway?” Zak asked. 

“Yeah. I got held up by some guy with a knife, but he was recording it on the other platform and scared him off. We got talking when we saw each other on the train the next day.”

“Sappy,” Bad sounded exasperated, “Why didn't you tell me you were threatened like that?”

“The worst to come out of it was a lost sandwich, Bad. Besides, the dude had a mask and hat on. It’s not like I could give you a description.”

“So you and Dream got talking,” Zak said, keeping things on track, “What did he sound like?”

“No real accent, just American like me, sorta.”

“Tad southern?”

“Not especially.”

“Deep? High?”

“Average.” 

“Right,” Zak sounded like he was moving around the room, “Have you seen the guy carrying anything? Boxes, frames, bags?”

“Why?”

“Yes or no, Nick.” 

“Just a backpack, nothing big or heavy looking, or anything interesting. He had a shopping bag or something once but it had food in it, you know, whatever.”

Another pause. The breathing through the receiver stopped and Sapnap breathed deeply, paying attention to the headache starting to form from strain. His feet were cold, the bed beneath him warm. He could feel the springs through the mattress but it was better than the floor or the couch. Breathe. 

“Alright,” Bad’s voice came through the receiver once again, and it didn't sound any less chipper than before, “Thanks Sapnap. I don't think we’ll need you to come in for questioning or anything.”

Sapnap chucked in a way he hoped came across as either relieved or awkward, and he asked, “Thank God. I don't think I'd have the time to come in, anyway. What were you trying to find?”

“Nothing too major,” Zak was quick to say, “just narrowing down a case, is all. We’re having trouble finding suspects, but someone else we questioned mentioned a ‘Dream’. Yours doesn't meet the description, luckily for you.”

“Yeah,” Bad said, “so you can do what you want with your Dream, be it friendly or not!” 

“It’s just friendly,” Sapnap decided to say, “and he’s not mine. But yeah. I should probably head to sleep. I’ve got work in,” he checked the clock, “nine hours. Jeez, but yeah. I’m gonna head off.”

“Alright, bye Sappy!” 

“See ya, Bad.”

He ended the call, dropped the phone to his side and listened to the outro of the song from the apartment above him. Eyes trained on the watermark, his thoughts moved like too many fish in a tank; wriggling, panicked, and hard to catch. 

What were they looking for from him? And what did they want from Dream?


	2. Chapter 2

February was often called the cruellest of all months and Sapnap was able to believe it without question. 

The world continued to be as cold as it was harsh and Sapnap didn't see Dream on the train to or from work the next day. Not that failing to see Dream was the harsh part, rather, the terrible weather.  
But now it was Sunday, and New York hadn't got the message about spring being soon and snow continued to fall from the sky in great flakes, stuck together in a way that reminded Sapnap of two insects either fighting or mating, and neither filled him with joy at the imagery. People walked the streets in thick coats, scarves, gloves and with umbrellas or newspapers over their heads, and Sapnap shivered both inside his apartment and out of it, even though the heating was firmly on and the blankets piled up. Two duvets were wonderful, but there was only so much they could do when the person inside them was cold to begin with. 

Rain turned to sleet turned to snow, turning the snow on the sides of roads to solid mounds of packed ice and then into black snow again when the downpour temporarily stopped. He could hear cars, taxis, whatever, sludging through it outside his window, and as his Sunday off drew to an end, his phone buzzed. 

_Can I ask you a favour?_

Sapnap looked at the message, at the blue background of the text and at the name on the screen. 

**Depends.**

_On?_

**What it is, also when.**

_Saturday next week, I have this thing and you could be my plus one, if you want._

**I don't know. Again, depends what it is.**

_Opening for an art gallery, near the water. Some fancy guy owns a collection that's being put to auction and I wanted to see what he has._

**Do you have a suit I can borrow?**

_I have several :)_

To work, from work, and to work. Sapnap took the night train on a Tuesday night with one thing in mind – sleep. The idiot above him (and he meant his neighbour, not God) kept playing ‘Holy Waterfall’ and he was ready to tear his hair out, eyebrows included, but he still took the subway, took his time in nodding off and on again, and waited for him to magically appear at his stop.

It was a form of magic, sometimes, the fact that he managed to get to and from home without incident. The number of times he had woken up seconds before his stop was an act from above, and he did mean God that time. 

And the train pulled up to the familiar stop, the one he’d never dismounted at but watched the platform all the same, and his eyes caught the leather jacket first, and the person it was talking to second. Hat and coat, floating around no face; Dream talked to it and smiled as if he was kissing ass, as if the guy had a pistol pressed to his ribs and for all Sapnap knew it might have been the case, since he couldn't see Dream’s other side. The doors to the train opened, and Sapnap made a movement, a lurch almost as if he was about to launch out of his seat and off the train, but the reminder from his manager, from his boss, rang out like a bell in his head. One more time, and that was it. One more time, and streets for him. 

Well, no. He had friends, but the statement was all the same. He needed the money, the waste of time, to eat twice a day and have a lumpy mattress. So slowly, so slowly, his ass returned to his seat. His eyes didn't leave Dream. 

He didn't seem uncomfortable, per say, but more so concerned, listening intently to what the person in the coat was saying. They were in dark blue, standard black shoes, sneakers, and their hat hid their face. Maybe they didn't have one, but Sapnap was looking at Dream too. The other person handed him something wrapped in bubble wrap, too big to be drugs, but who knew? He didn't know Dream. He hardly knew himself on a good day, so why would he know Dream? 

The other person left. The train doors closed. Airlock. 

Dream looked at him, straight in his eye, and with a smile the other man waved. 

Thursday. 

It was snowing, almost as bad as sand falling from the sky, and Sapnap sat in the shitty security office at work and slurped his ramen like they owed him money. They did, though, since they were far too much money for such little flavour, but cheap compared to anything else on the planet. That was the problem with convenience – it tended to rip the other guy off. 

He tipped his head back between a mouthful to look up at the sprinkler, at the little green light in the smoke alarm and the smiley faced sticker someone had probably put up there in the 80’s, and he swallowed the mush when the starch turned sweet. The room was dark around him, only lit up by the equally dark video feeds from the cameras on the wall opposite him, and Sapnap flicked a hair out of his face when the one in front of the gallery panned from the left to the right, from the right to the left. He saw a delivery truck drive by, a person walking their dog at whenever at night.

Sapnap looked at the clock. Half past midnight. He’d stated his shift at nine, going on until five in the morning, and he had a good amount of time to go. That was one of the problems with his job, and he knew that it was both a problem and not. The idiot that owned the gallery would never know if he pulled out his phone and worked on something else, if it was work at all, but given the break ins happening all over the city, especially the independently owned ones, meant that he needed to keep his eyes out. The most recent one, around two weeks ago, had happened early in the morning, and the one before that, at a gallery the owner was affiliated with, happened just after it closed, like the thieves came out of the walls when the coast was clear.

It was a miracle that no one had caught them yet. On camera, it had happened plenty of times, but never in person. Never through eyes. 

The disposable chopsticks clicked together in his hand, and he drew the ramen pot up to his chin again to take another bite. Bite? Slurp? Either way, the noodles went into his mouth and he chewed. It was funny how he paid more attention to things when there was less to pay attention to, like the texture of the roof of his mouth. Ridged. He’d seen a video of a hippopotamus crushing a watermelon and the roof of its mouth had been ridged too. Funny that.

And the other things he noticed too. The white shirt he had beneath his denim jacket (and stupid badge, but he chose to ignore that) itched slightly more than it used to, even though he knew the reason why. He pulled the bottom hem off his skin, and it snapped back into place. The fabric conditioner he used wasn't the best. The sample box he’d managed to snag at the local corner store had ran out a week ago, and, well, sometimes you just have to bite the bullet and buy a new one instead of relying on freebies. But damn, now he had a whole bottle of budget’s best and his skin felt rashed. There were at least thirty more washes in there. Maybe the lady downstairs would be willing to do a swap – 

Movement. The ramen went to the table, and Sapnap’s hands went to the keyboard after throwing the chopsticks into the pot. You were not supposed to cross them like that in the bowl, but whatever Japanese deity could suck it until he figured out which camera that was on. 

A pause. One moment, two, and a hand came out of the background on camera E-4, not doing anything in particular, but that was the alley that ran behind all of the old brownstone apartments. There were some residents down that street, some late-shift pierogi folders and pencil pushers, but at half-past nothing? At whatever in the morning? Sapnap’s eyes tracked the camera, flicked to E-5, E-3, and he could see that someone was at the back door. 

They didn't seem to be knocking. He wouldn't have been able to hear them if they had been in the office anyway, but camera G-1 had audio recording too and was pointed directly at that door. No ‘volume’ symbol (he couldn't remember what it was called) came up in the corner of the screen. It wasn't loud enough for it to pick up, or they were doing something else.  
More movement on camera E-4, another hand. It wasn't the same person who was at the back door. 

Yeah, Sapnap decided, nah. He pulled the alarm.

“911, what’s your emergency?” 

Yes officer, I work the night shift. 

Yes officer, I saw them at 12.30am.

Yes officer, I called the number. 

No officer, no one entered the building

No officer, I do not associate with criminals. 

“You got lucky,” Bad said to him. 

Zak was leaning against the cop car outside with them, and the other officer with them, Officer ‘Sooty’ or something was inside collecting the video data from the camera feeds. Another officer, or an inspector or something, was looking at the door around the back. Sapnap leant back on the pillar at the bottom of the steps up, not quite shivering in the cold air, but he could feel his feet going numb in the settled snow.

“More than you know,” Sapnap said, “Boss lady says I get a bonus straight from the boss’ pockets. Not sure how much, but she said when everyone’s cleared off I get a check.”

Bad whistled, and Zak raised his eyebrows at Sapnap.

“One good deed and you’re being rewarded?”

Sapnap shrugged.

Zak tilted his head back, his arms still folded, and said, “Damn. Wish I got cash every time we busted someone. We’d be rolling, Bad.” 

“We wouldn't get anything now, though.”

“Still.”

Sapnap watched as Zak put his hands down to light a cigarette, and Bad looked at him out the corner of his eye like he wanted to say something, but still he stayed quiet. There was an interesting relationship between them, working or otherwise, but Bad and Zak worked well together and complemented each other's styles of justice accordingly. There were constant arguments between them, both on and off shift, but where Zak often didn't feel like he should give anyone a chance, Bad was more inclined to believe in the ‘not guilty until proven’ mentality. It usually ended in a happy medium. 

“Your officer, the one that questioned me before,” Sapnap spoke up.

“Officer Meyer, yeah.”

“Is she going to need to take a statement again?”

Bad shook his head, but Zak answered him verbally.

“Nah. You’ve already given us a statement, you know? When we were like ‘what happened?’ and ‘did you ice the mother fucker’?”

“Zak,” Bad said, “Language.”

“No one is here that cares.”

“ _I_ care.”

“Sapnap, do you care?”

“Nah.”

“See? No one cares.”

“So I’m all good, right?” Sapnap brought the conversation back around, “I don't need to, like, go in for questioning?”

“I think you’re good, but before we say anything solid we’ll need to ask the deputy head.”

“Right.”

“Just in case,” Zak said, “and, also, it’s not like you’re gonna snitch on your own guys, so I don't think Meyer’s case of you working for them holds water.”

“Seriously? She thinks that?”

Sapnap leaned forwards slightly off the pillar he was against, and in the darkness of the morning, he could only really just see Zak look over at Bad, knowing he said something he should have. Bad reached up to brush against the back of his neck, awkward as their eyes turned to him instead, but eventually he spoke up.

“She was suspicious of you knowing that ‘Dream’ guy.”

Sapnap snorted, leaning back again. “Why?” he asked, “he’s just some guy on the subway.”

“Yeah,” Zak said, “and a name that’s appeared in like six of the break ins so far. There’s multiple people, there’s audio on some of the remaining tapes, and they talk to one another. Dream seems to be a codename or a nickname or something. Couple of others too, but Dream comes up most.”

“You got a description?”

He was fishing then, just fishing around to mute the mood a little and see if he needed to buy the guy on the train a cake or turn him into Bad’s trustworthy hands. It would look weird though, if the Dream he did know turned out to be the one they wanted, if he knew he was a thief and kept the information from them intentionally. If you put the frog in cold water and set it on the stove to heat it up, well, Sapnap knew the saying. 

Marble cake. Coffee. Five-thirty-five AM subway train northbound, and the man he was looking for got on.

The floors of the station and the train were wet from the snow outside, which was both melting and being added to at the same time outside, but down in the catacomb-like subway the only sign of it was what lingered on the shoulders of peoples coats and on the toes of boots and shoes. Sapnap could remember the feeling of slush hitting his trainers and was glad to be out of it, at least temporarily, and he could feel the warmth of the marble cake hitting his legs through his pockets. 

Dream smiled at him as he got on, looking tired. Maybe he’d had a rough night or something. Hadn't slept well. Why else would he be awake all night?

“This is a thank you,” Sapnap told Dream as he offloaded one of the aluminium wrapped pieces of cake into his hands before the other man could say anything, and the coffee followed immediately after, “for making sure I didn't die the other day.”

“Dude,” Dream said, and it was a nervous kind of chuckle, “Nah, dude. This is too much.”

“It’s for you.”

“It’s still too much. That was like, I don't even know. Two weeks ago?”

“Dream,” Sapnap said, “just take it, yeah?”

It was surprisingly quiet on the subway, considering how the windows were still fogged up, as if there were a hundred ghosts travelling with them. For all he knew, it might have been the case; the subway was one of the oldest pieces of infrastructure in New York, after all, and definitely one of the most travelled. Someone must have died down there at some point, poor souls. What a way to make a grave – a public funeral every day, even after they’d forgotten you down there. At least it was underground. 

But there was no use thinking about ghosts now, since the very much alive person before him was smiling around the tiredness that he looked like held, and with the coffee pressed against his lips, Dream mumbled a thanks before taking a sip. 

“What sparked this, then?” Dream asked when he drew back from the mouth of the cup, and he licked where the coffee had collected on his lip, “Did you get me cake or something, too?”

“I did,” Sapnap said, “It’s the marble cake you kept talking about.”

“Damn, _Sally’s_ marble cake and coffee. Do you have a ring too or is it my turn?”

Sapnap laughed, “I think it’s your turn.”

“Until next time, then.”  
There was a comfortable pause between them, one where Dream took another sip of his coffee and where Sapnap crossed one leg over the other, then let them hit the wet floor, and put the other one over the first again. The windows were dark behind the unintentionally frosted glass, and as the train moved between stations, Sapnap spoke up again.

“You looked tired, coming on the train just then.”

“Long night.”

Dream didn't have any reaction to the words, but the man’s blonde hair came down past his ears and made it hard for Sapnap to see everything he was feeling. 

“Yeah? How come?”

“Just not a lot of sleep. Work and all that.”

“Aren't you freelance?”

“Projects still have deadlines.”

He said it in a teasing way, his sleepy eyes trailing over to Sapnap, but he didn't seem affected by Sapnap’s prodding in any way. Tired, just tired, and Sapnap could feel himself relax slightly at the sight. 

“Dream isn't your real name, right?”

“And Sapnap isn't yours.”

“It’s Nick.”

Dream did look at him then, his green eyes looked almost amber in the terrible lights of the train, and as the subway pulled into the next station Sapnap could see the oxidised copper colour appear within them like the discolouration on an old silver mirror; first at the edges, and gradually towards the middle, until he could see them clearly. Dream’s mouth moved slightly like he was about to say something and chose not to at the last second, and then he opened his lips, revealing his front teeth, to respond. 

“Clay,” he said, and then, “Do you prefer Nick?”

“Nah. Most of my friends call me Sapnap. Not quite a last name, you know? Do yours call you Dream?”

“Think like ‘Banksy’,” Dream told him, “Most people in the picture know me by that, but I guess people who _know_ me call me Clay.”

The train rocked like a ship out at sea, trundling along in the early hours of the morning since it had better places to be, and Sapnap felt like he was being rocked closer to Dream, magnetized either by the subway itself or his private smile, and he forced himself to lean back. The air smelt like dust. Warm, human dust.

“Clay,” Sapnap said, and Dream’s smile got wider, “I think I like that.” 

Two days later, and it was the Saturday he had been both dreading and waiting for. 

Subway. Four winds of the interchange at the Grand Central Terminal and he blinked as the breeze, both from outside and the trains below, dried his eyes out. The boards above him were hard to read in the distance between him and it, and yet he gazed at them anyway, looking for his answer. They might have well been hieroglyphics, or middle English, or Dutch for all he knew. Why didn't anyone around here know how to make an easy-to-read board? 

But then it caught his eye. Green line, south bound. The same one he got to work, it seemed, just a different stop further along. He sighed and took the stairs down, his backpack weighed down with all the things he apparently needed to go to this auction where he couldn't afford anything, but with an open bar and a five-course menu, Sapnap would have been a fool to say not George when the offer came down the pipeline. If the other man’s suits fitted him, then there wouldn't be the added stress of getting an outfit fitted, or worse, custom made. 

There were advantages to having friends in high places, but it was never going to be a life Sapnap could live, if not for the money, then for the combination of expectations, various nuances and people constantly trying to trip you up. He just had to be polite, not especially knowledgeable, but nice enough to not let George down. 

The station platform wasn't as busy as he had expected for a Saturday, which was especially questionable considering where he was catching it from, but to ease his confusion the north-bound platform was packed full, with people waiting on the stairs down too. More people were going to the upper side than lower Manhattan, it seemed, and Sapnap was glad for it for once. If luck was on his side, he might actually be able to get a seat. 

The train arrived and he got on, but the only seat he saw was priority only so he let it slide, and was thankful he did when a pregnant woman got on. He gripped the handrail above him, the backpack weighing his shoulders down, and he closed his eyes under the bright lights until someone spoke up. 

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Sapnap didn't open his eyes, but he still smiled slightly. 

“Fancy seeing you, too.” 

He still didn't look up, but Dream kept talking to him quietly, as if other people on the subway were listening in on their conversation, anticipating information, or waiting for them to do something. Sapnap’s ears were wide open – on busy trains he was too anxious to listen to music – and Dream spoke up again. 

“Going anywhere interesting?”

“A friends,” Sapnap said, “nothing too interesting.”

“A ‘friend’, hey?” Dream sounded smug.

The train lurched to a stop at the next station and Sapnap fell forward slightly, only held back by his feet and the handle above him, and Dream put his hand on Sapnap’s waist to keep him steady. When he was back on his own two feet, Sapnap looked up at him and Dream took his hand away. 

“Just a friend,” Sapnap confirmed, “He’s straight, anyway.”

Dream could have asked an obvious question, one Sapnap was half dreading and half elated at the thought of him asking it, but Dream just moved the conversation along in their private standing room. 

“A shame for all of us men,” he said, “you know, considering all the weirdos and strangers you get on the subway, it’s not too often you see someone like you on here.”

“How come?”

“You know,” Dream said, his teeth visible in his smile, “‘normal’.”

“Is that ‘normal’ in quotation marks?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I mean, no offence,” the train stopped at the next station. More people got off and even more got on. The space between them got smaller, maybe an inch or so, and Sapnap continued, “We hardly know each other.”

“I’m Dream, or – or Clay.”

“And I’m Sapnap, but most people know me as Nick.” 

“See? We know each other. First names and everything.”

“Hardly.” 

“Well,” Dream sighed in a way that sounded forced, “we’ll just have to try harder.”

Sapnap did look at him now, up at the other man's eyes and raised an eyebrow at him, but Dream didn't elaborate. Instead he just grinned down at Sapnap, and as the train turned another corner, Dream’s hand came to his waist again. Sapnap’s fell to his shoulder, but this time they didn't pull apart as the train righted itself. 

“What’s your big idea?”

“I know a speakeasy.”

“What is this, the 1920’s?” 

“With this economy? Undoubtedly.” 

Sapnap chuckled, feeling butterflies in his stomach as he realised, or maybe fantasised about, what Dream was doing. He didn't speak up again, letting Dream take the lead with the conversation, mostly just because he had no idea where the other man was trying to take it and he didn't want to assume, only to get it wrong. But Dream didn't say anything for a long moment, one that felt like it stretched to the other end of the train and back, and Sapnap just held his breath. The person behind him was really hogging his space, and Dream had no qualms in doing the same, even if he didn't intend to. 

“How about I text you next time I’m free,” Dream said, “It’s hard to think of days I definitely have off right now.”

“You a busy person, then?”

“Always. Do you have any guaranteed days off?”

“Saturdays,” Sapnap told him, “And currently Sundays too, but I’m going to ask my boss if I can have Fridays instead of Sundays,” 

“I can't do it tonight,” Dream said, “got something I’m expected to attend. Maybe another time? How about you message me when you get your days changed. A Friday might just work for me.”

Sapnap looked down, biting his lip, the nervous feeling of butterflies getting stronger as Dream waited patiently for a response. But then Sapnap found his answer.

“Alright,” he said, “When I get a spare Friday, I’ll message you.”

Dream nodded with a smile, and Sapnap still had his head down, so he only sort of felt the other man’s breath on his hair in the cramped standing room of the train car. Even with the non-verbal answer, Sapnap felt better than he had all week. 

George pressed the key to open the door at the bottom of his apartment building and hung up the other end of the line, letting Sapnap come inside unencumbered and without him actually needing to come downstairs in person. 

Sapnap knew the route by now though, through the on-street entrance and into the lobby, up the stairs and into the elevator, and then up to the top floor of the apartment block. It was one of those fancy, seven story ones built in the 1930’s, where marble was the new black and having light up buttons and a mirror in the elevator was a luxury, but the building wore it in a way that felt classy more so than cheap, as the interior was genuine instead of the cheap knockoff some newer builds went for. The elevator had a cage door, which closed automatically and didn't need someone to operate it for him, and yet it looked classic too, just repurposed. 

Sapnap never told George about the situation his apartment was in, but then again, George hadn't asked. If he did, there would be a lot of awkward offering, and a lot of equally awkward refusal. Sometimes there were only so many ways you could say no before you just had to take it anyway, regardless of how much you wanted it or not.

That made it sound dirty. Sapnap let out a slight chuckle as the elevator reached the top floor and the single door to the apartment came into view. The floors were still marble, the pillars on either side of the door still mahogany or something, and the low-energy bulb in the fancy light fitting was glowing gently in the midday gloom. The advantage of a top floor apartment was lots of light in the apartment, but hardly any outside of it. George never seemed to mind. 

He knocked. George answered. 

“Sapnap!” 

A sweater, baby blue and probably cashmere, and a pair of tan coloured trousers were the first thing he saw, then the smile on his friend’s face and the elated look in his eyes. Sapnap couldn't help but smile as well, and he grinned at George as the other man ferried him inside, closing the door behind them. George wrapped his arms around him, pulling him in for a hug which was a bit tighter and a bit longer than usual, but before Sapnap could say anything, he pulled back. 

“I always forget that you’re taller than me,” he said instead of ‘hello’, and Sapnap just chuckled. 

“Surprise.”

“Not a surprise, just… I don't know. Anyway!” George dragged him further into the apartment, out of the white entrance hall and into the actual floor of the apartment. 

Even though the apartment building was only seven floors high, George’s living room got a huge amount of light through the south-facing windows, which stood three feet or so off the ground and arched up like those in a Victorian warehouse. The outermost walls were uncovered brick, with the red stones looking worn and intentionally exposed to air, while the other three (four, if you included a partition) walls were plastered with a light grey and striped wallpaper, before it hit the chair rail and the wood panelling underneath, which was an original feature of the building. The floors, and panelling too, were a deep oak colour, which contrasted with the navy couch and seats. George wasn't necessarily pretentious, but he had insisted to Sapnap when he moved in that he didn't want it to be tacky, just comfortable. On the partition wall was a bookcase, filled with clutter and novels alike, and behind it a desk, facing another tall window. The light in the centre of the room was off, but it still felt airy, and the big door to the kitchen-combined-dining room was left open, and he could see the marble floor through it, but nothing more. 

Moss, the calico, slept on the desk chair and didn't so much as twitch when Sapnap entered the room. The cat only had one eye, and it’s ear had been damaged when it was still on the streets, and in some ways Sapnap saw himself in its image. George kept strays, and for that he was thankful. It was good to know that sometimes Sapnap could be welcomed without having to make a good impression. 

George didn't hold onto him, but he did move over to the room opposite the kitchen and to their right, which was closed. Then, he paused. 

“Do you want to just get on with it? Or we can hang out for a bit first, if you’re still recovering from the subway.”

“The subway isn't _awful_ , George,” Sapnap told him, pulling his sleeves out of his coat. 

He felt glad for the fact that he’d decided upon a nicer black jumper to wear that day, even if George had seen him in worse, if only because of the party they’d be going to that night. It felt almost like he _had_ to make a bit more of an effort, and his washed hair proved it, even if it just lay limply at the sides of his head. He got the problem women had now that he intentionally didn't go and get it cut – it curled in the heat, lay flat in the rain, and frizzed up at any given moment just for the hell of it. 

Sapnap was still holding his coat, and before he could respond George had come back over and taken it from him, and he held it in front of him as he waited for Sapnap to answer. He could only sigh, knowing what George had invited him over for, and nodded.

“Alright,” Sapnap said, “Let’s get this over with.”

Resigning himself to an afternoon of trying on clothes, and then an evening afterwards of being a plus-one to an event where he wouldn't know anyone or what to do about anything, Sapnap watched as George just smiled, one that was edging on excitement. It made Sapnap wince involuntary with something inside him feeling akin to worry. 

“It’ll be fun,” George promised. 

“For you or for me?”

“For me, but hopefully for you too.”

It wasn't fun. 

“This is the most I've ever undressed and re-dressed in one day, George, and that’s even after you made me model your new fucking t-shirt collection.”

“They were jackets, Sapnap, and it wasn't a collection, we were in a store. Turn around?”

The suit Sapnap was wearing was a Burberry classic wool suit, navy in colour, and according to George, one of his favourites. But Sapnap could hardly appreciate the brand or its material, and instead pulled at the way the suit jacket puckered awkwardly around his stomach. It wasn't too tight or too loose, just _weird_ , and George looked at him in the way someone would look at a particularly puzzling crossword. It was the fifth one he’d tried on, and with each he had to change the shirt and trousers as well to make everything match, ‘to get an eye of what it should look like’, George had said. 

“It doesn't fit right,” he said, waving his hand, and he handed the next suit over, “try this one instead. Valentino, wool as well but should be slimmer on the sides.”

“George, I don't care about the brand, I just want one to fit me.”

“The brand is part of the process, Sapnap, please just put it on.” 

George also handed over a white shirt, the same one from two suits earlier, along with a dark red tie. Apparently in the suit world, deciding which colours to compare and contrast was just as important as wearing anything; he could turn up naked and it would be better than wearing a black suit with a teal shirt in winter. George seemed to favour the light blue shirts for himself, so the white one was a bit of a change of pace, but considering the mid-tone grey-blue wool of the suit, it did make sense. The tie would also be the darkest element, with the suit itself coming next, and then his own skin, even if he was pasty as anything from being out the sun for so long. 

So Sapnap disappeared behind the room divider and pulled the cufflinks off, then the pocket square, suit jacket, waistcoat, tie, belt, trousers, shirt and vest. He avoided eye contact in the mirror behind the divider as he pulled on the new, white vest, followed by the equally white shirt and then the wool trousers. They were fairly loose in the leg, not enough to be saggy, which became tighter around his thighs and hips. The belt followed, keeping the shirt tucked in and trousers firmly on, then the waistcoat, which hugged his waist in without the puckering on the buttons like before, and the suit jacket wasn't tight in the shoulders like the one before last. 

He looked up at himself. The only things left were the tie and the cufflinks, along with the pocket square which George would pick out after seeing him, but he… he didn't look _bad_. It wasn't the rented suit he’d worn to prom or the button down he put on for his job interviews, not the fancy trousers his dad had got him for Grandma’s funeral, or the waistcoat his ill-advised second girlfriend had gifted him for Christmas a few years ago. Yeah. He didn't look bad. The not-blue almost-grey brought out the warmth in his eyes, made his hair look intentionally plain, or, well, straight, and the only absurd look about him were his socked feet on the beige carpet of George’s bedroom. 

“You good?” George asked, interrupting the moment he was having with himself. 

Sapnap didn't say anything but stood out from the room divider and into George’s careful gaze, but instead of the concentrated judge look that he had with all of the other ones, the man’s hand came away from his chin immediately. Before Sapnap could say anything, George spoke up.

“Yes.”

A pause. “Yes?” 

“That’s the one.”

Two hours later, at around eight that same night, Sapnap and George entered the main hall of the rich weirdo’s house and were immediately imposters among the guests which already loitered in the room. 

He held his breath when the bouncers had made sure that George’s name was on the list, and while they had only eyed Sapnap up and down, after asking his name to make sure he wasn't on the blacklist, he still felt like an insect under their gaze. But his suit fit well, too big for George but kept as a spare for ‘just this kind of thing’, and he knew he looked presentable at least. He wouldn't go so far as to say he looked good, but better than usual, especially with the concealer George had smushed under his eyes to make him look less tired. Makeup, who had time for it anyway? Even if he did look better. Not good, just better.

The room they entered was tall, two stories which had a balcony above them, and it was longer than it was wide. A chandelier, no doubt a remnant of the empire-built architecture, hung in the centre of the room and drew the eye to it, dripping in icicle-like glass and filled with electric light. The room had a microphone and an area that was supposed to be a stage on the far side, but there was standing room only. Some doors lead away and further into the house, presumably to bathrooms, the kitchen for the staff, and maybe seats if he cared to look, but Sapnap had a game plan – stick close to George, drink little alcohol, and eat as much as possible without vomiting. He still had work the next night, and while he wouldn't flag at the party from lack of sleep, it was still possible for him to get worn out quickly.

“We’ll stay until midnight,” George said to him when they made their way further into the room. 

Some people were dancing nearby, women in velvet and men peering at them like they were a different species, and Sapnap withheld a shudder at the thought of having to be entertaining, almost like a dancing monkey, to those old weirdos. Some of the people in the room Sapnap could sort of recognise, in the way you recognised a food critic in a restaurant, and the signs were clear that some people… well, didn't belong. 

A man with a heavy moustache, a white suit, and dreadlocks. A woman with her hair in a wrap, a coral-coloured dress and a grin like a caricature. Another man, older, who laughed like a cow and looked like he whipped his employees. 

Something was up. Something was going to go wrong and Sapnap could feel the anxiety settling down into the lining of his stomach and get ready for a long night of staying awake. George didn't seem uncomfortable, per say, but definitely… different. The last time he saw the other man like this was when he’d invited his boss around for dinner and asked Sapnap to be his boyfriend to ham up the impression. It had worked, with George getting a promotion and a compliments to the chef for the salmon en croute, but the man hadn't been able to properly relax all night, hadn't been able to slouch or put on his comfortable trousers, hadn't been able to drink beer instead of wine, or have his cat clambering all over the kitchen counters. 

“You good?” he asked, quietly, and he could feel someone nearby looking at him.

“Yeah, just, let’s go to the bar.”

“I don't want to get drunk,” Sapnap warned him, but George settled the matter in seconds.

“Me neither, but conversation is easier if you can pause to take a sip.”

He nodded, and he and George made their way through the smaller groups of people until they had reached the long bar on the right wall, where the surface was a kind of black marble and the shelves behind the mixers were mahogany, rich, backlit along the whole thing as if to say ‘yeah, we’ve got it all’. The people along the bar drank and leaned against it as if it was theirs, their wine glasses half empty their heads in the clouds of smoke in the room. It appeared the place broke every relegation in the state, from fire alarms to serving after someone was well past drunk. Someone on the end of the bar had their head in their hands, as if they’d gambled their existence, soul, and muscle movements away. Sapnap’s gaze didn't linger; he forced it away. 

“A club soda,” George said to the bartender, “with lime, and a St Clements for my friend here, virgin, please.” 

He ordered it in a way that was weightless, effortless, and in a voice Sapnap could tell was fake from a mile away and with one eye open. George didn't lay on the accent, but perhaps heightened it slightly in case other people, with their prying ears were listening in, and based on the glance George sent over Sapnap’s shoulder, they may very well have been. For all he knew, the rich weirdo who owned the place might have bugged every surface, every glass, and the itchy feeling of being observed wasn't lost on him. He had never been into voyeurism, and at this point he could definitely die without experiencing it again.  
It was an unfortunate side effect that to exist was to be perceived, and even with the not-bad looking suit he wore, he might as well have been naked. 

Someone laughed a little too loudly, a little too fake, on the other end of the bar. Someone else was talking with a hidden amount of disgust to someone else. There was no obtrusive non-human noise, like the background rattle of the subway car or the buzz of a ceiling light, no background music of a recognisable song, or the purring of George’s cat going between their legs. Just human noise, man-made but more so than other man-made noises, and Sapnap could feel his brain falling backwards in his skull. 

“Until midnight, right?”

Sapnap said it, he definitely did, but it was as if he had said it thirty minutes ago and the echo had only just reached him, speaking with earphones in, over the sound of some inaudible music. George looked over to him, handed him the club soda with lime (he was embarrassed about his own drink choices and always ordered Sapnap’s drink under his own name), and leant back on the bar. Another thing he didn't do – lean, and yet here he was, suit and tie, sharp eyes and curved mouth, and Sapnap didn't feel like he knew his friend. 

“Yeah,” he replied, “Do you want to come say hi to my boss or do you want to say here? I should go sooner rather than later though. Get it over with.”

“What does your boss even do?”

“Sees what I do and says it isn't good enough, feels like,” George said with a spat-out huff of a laugh, “You know what I do? Assess art and give it a guess through algorithms and whatever? He only hired me because he had no patience to know how it worked. When you have better things to do, or you don't want to do the work yourself, and you have money, you pay someone else to do it.”

“So he…?”

“Asks me what something is worth, buys low, sells high. That’s it, and even still he has someone else to do that bit. He’s just the face, the grill on the car protecting everything inside.”

Sapnap put the drink to his lips without taking a sip, and a mixture of the carbonation and the citrus did make him feel a little bit more present, even if his thoughts were still on how much the countertop of the bar cost rather than the people he was surrounded by. He didn't even want to think about how much the suit he was wearing cost, about how much of his rent it would pay, about… about _life_. 

“I’ll stay here,” Sapnap said to George, his eyes trained across the room.

“Alright. You know to text me if you can't find me.”

“You’ll check?”

“Of course,” George smiled, “I don't want to leave you here in hot water. I’ll message you too if I need to.”

“Yeah, definitely.”

It was the only thing he could offer in return, and as George smiled and turned to walk across the hall, Sapnap felt as if he had lost a limb. 

The dislocated, distant feeling came over him again, unspooling the wrinkles in his brain and drawing them back into his skull as if to hide them, and Sapnap raised the drink to his mouth in an attempt to revive himself. He’d been in a situation like this before, plenty of times in high school classes where he felt so bored and inadequate that he might have cried if not for the social pressure. He didn't expect to be in a situation similar to it for a long time, maybe if he had joined the military or something fresh out of high school he would have, maybe if he’d fallen into that Venus fly trap of a temptation. Maybe if he had chosen a more competitive field for his occupation he would have. Maybe if he’d had the high and failure of an actual committed relationship, he would have. 

Maybe it was for the better. Huh. he moved on.

The buffet table was filled with fancy food; smoked salmon, cream cheese, canapés, little balls of something that was probably caviar, fennel fronds and radish slices thin enough to see through, prawn cocktail, cherry tomatoes, beef jus, mango coulis, mint sprigs, oysters, crab, shrimp, ricotta, bruschetta, mussels, prosciutto, vinaigrettes, possets, and a bunch of other stuff he hadn't seen on the daytime TV cooking show he tended to frequent as he cooked his dinner at 9am. All of this food, from fish to farm to forest to field, and none of it was appealing. It reeked. Money ill spent. 

Who the hell ate the leaves off a celery? Who the hell had the money for that many lobster tails without using the rest of the lobster? Who the hell willingly put an ice sculpture on a table with a silk tablecloth? Someone who didn't care about the dry cleaning. They had people for those sorts of things. When you have money, you pay someone else to do it.

“See anything interesting?”

Sapnap startled, but a hand came to his arm and rubbed the tendon there through his suit, and the face he had promised not to go on a date on that night had appeared to ignore that and come along anyway. Dream’s face, smoothed in the lighting and harder to read than in the fluorescents of the train, appeared by his side like a balm to all wounds. The last thing he thought to himself before the warmth of the hand seeped into his arm was that he might have to invest in a circle of salt. 

Only demons smiled like that. 

“You,” Sapnap said, looking at Dream as if he had escaped his back pocket.

“I’m the interesting thing, huh?” He spoke. 

Sapnap took a step back, and Dream’s hand left him, even if he didn't step back and the pleased expression was still on his face.

Dream was in a very dark grey suit, the jacket open and bottle-green waistcoat visible, with a white shirt and similarly dark grey tie. His hair, which was probably a similar length to Sapnap’s, was tucked behind one ear and let loose behind his head, even though it made his face look longer than it perhaps was. The other man wasn't holding anything and had his hands in his pockets, almost like someone who had better places to be. Sapnap looked him in the eye and managed to close his mouth. 

“Why are you here?” He asked, for lack of anything better to say.

“Told you, I deal with art. What about you?”

“I’m, my friend. He’s my, no, I’m his plus one.” 

“Is this your same friend you mentioned earlier?”

Sapnap nodded as Dream reached over to the buffet and pulled a dessert-cookie-thing from the table and put it in his mouth. He felt like he should say something, as if he should ask more questions about all the funny coincidences happening to do with Dream, but all he could do was watch as the other man finished his mouthful and spoke up again. 

“Want to go upstairs?”

“Huh?”

“Upstairs. There’s seats and stuff, and there’s less people belatedly listening to our conversation.”

Someone behind Sapnap hurried off before he could turn around to look, and the sticky feeling of being out of place came back to him in a wave of dread and anticipation. He was being watched, constantly, consciously or subconsciously, and he really needed to start remembering that before he forgot and said something that was uncouth or whatever. Dream didn't seem to be expecting anything from him, however, and even with the man’s far too good-looking suit he was more on Sapnap’s side than anyone else’s. That he knew of, he had to add. 

Dream was still an unknown entity, a foreground to a story Sapnap hadn't heard yet, and he only just knew the other man’s real name. The shenanigans with the gallery thefts, the similarities between what Bad had told him about and who they were looking for, and everything to do with him being at the fancy party George had been invited too screamed alarm bells at him. What were the chances of his Dream being the same one his friend was looking for? By the sounds of it, quite high.

But he didn't resist the hand that came out to take his. Didn't resist the urge to follow the other man up the stairs with their drinks in hand and stand on the balcony looking over the big hall. There were more passageways off to the left and right, both at the near end where they were standing and the far end nearer the stage area, and Sapnap could finally feel the weight of expectations fall off him when he realised that, at least for now, they were alone. 

Dream’s smile was a private thing, appearing from unwelcome news as the salvation he’d been wanting all day. From trying on clothes to sniffing out the bar, Sapnap could look at the other man and wonder if Dream really did have anything to hide. Did he have to try on suits for three hours before finding one that fit? Did he have to consider carefully what he drank as if the whole world was watching him?

Sapnap followed Dream to the long edge of the balcony, so that they were not immediately visible when people came up the stairs, but they could also see both the entrance to the hall and the stage all at once. It was like those seats in an opera house, the boxes at the side which allowed for a clear view without someone's head getting in the way, and Dream took his seat without a care in the world. 

This was a far cry from sewer rats and graffiti. Sapnap could honestly say he missed it. 

“I think the auction is starting,” Dream said when Sapnap took his seat.  
Most people in the hall were standing, aside from a few who were sitting at the very front, usually those with a blue-rinse and toupees, but Sapnap could see George standing with someone who looked like a dick further back. He was talking, inaudible, but Sapnap could feel the accent laid on thick anyway. Icing on the cake, almost – the bit idiots and children liked best. 

“You didn't say why you were here,” Sapnap said quietly as the person who owned the place got on stage.

“Yeah I did,” Dream was looking at him, “I deal with art.”

“You make it?”

“Well,” Dream paused, “No, but that’s not too important. It’s boring, nitty-gritty stuff.” 

“Tell me.”

Sapnap meant to say it in a way that was flirtatious, almost, like he was a honey pot or femme fatale trying to get him buttered up, but Dream just chuckled slightly and shook his head.

“Okay, fine. I source artists and help other, richer people find them.”

“Like an agent?”

“Yeah, basically.”

That was… plausible. The auction was just starting downstairs, and a pair of people who looked like butlers brought out a portrait and put it on an easel, and as the head rich-dude started talking about the piece, Sapnap spoke up.

“That’s pretty cool. Who knows, maybe I would have seen one of the things you’ve recommended to my boss.”

Dream didn't say anything for a second, but then he said, “Huh?”

“You know where I work, right?”

“Yeah?”

“The gallery?”

He was quiet for a second, but Sapnap continued, “Yeah. I’m night-shift, you know? They hired me after people started lifting shit when the place was closed. Been there about a month or so, now.”

Dream laughed, but it sounded weak. Nervous, maybe, or concerned at something. 

“I didn't realise you did night-shift,” he said, “I, honestly I’m going to sound like such a dick. I thought you did cleaning or something.”

“What made you think that?” Sapnap laughed, “Was it the clothes?”

“Uh, yeah. What kind of night guard wears an all-blue uniform?”

“Us, apparently.”

“The laundrette near me does too. You do a day shift there?”

“Fuck off,” Sapnap laughed, and the rich dude brought the hammer down as someone bought the portrait, “At least I’m not Mr unironically-leather like you.” 

“Leather suits me,” Dream put a hand to his chest as if to emphasise it, “And besides, I don't get cold so I might as well.” 

The people brought out another painting, by the looks of it a watercolour or gouache on canvas, and Sapnap squinted to get a better look at it. The art style was completely different from the one before it, of a bathroom or a bedroom or something instead of a person, and the size was different too. They must have purchased them off multiple artists, he realised, and staggered them so that people would pay more attention to who was coming up next. Smart technique to keep attention, but it would mean more work for the dude reading the labels to the class, and based on the way he butchered the Japanese artist’s name they’d be in for a long night. 

“So whoever owns the place invited you, yeah?”

“The lady I often make deals with did. She’s a chill person, so long as you’re alright bringing results in.”

“How come?”

“She may or may not have threatened another buyer before now for reserving a work.”

“Damn,” Sapnap laughed. 

The bids on the watercolour were heading up rapidly, and someone just put a million. These were some serious art collectors, but whether they were going into galleries or homes he wasn't sure. It’d be interesting to see where they ended up, since it was often just as important to frame the painting in the room as much as it was to have room for a painting. 

There was a unique air to the room for a second, and he looked over at Dream.

He didn't pose in the way George felt like he needed to, and he didn't have any qualms in leaning back in his chair in a way that reminded Sapnap of that one guy on that one show, or that one painting, the – point is. Dream, looking at him, eyes lidded and drink in hand. He was nowhere near drunk, nowhere near tipsy, and Dream was looking at him with something in the eyes. His condition was not a condition he knew. 

Or recognised. 

That’s a unique feeling. 

“Is something on my face?” He asked, even though he hadn't eaten, even though he hadn't had a sip to drink in at least fifteen minutes, even though it wasn't lipstick smudge or melted snow, or a crumb of some long-lost cake. 

Sapnap looked at Dream as the other man told him, “Nick, you’re incredible.” 

Pause.

“What brought that on?”

Awkward, out of place. He tried not to laugh, but Dream didn't seem offended by the smirk. The casualty of otherness came and went and Sapnap was still alive to see it. Dream was still alive to see him. His thought about the intrinsic voyeuristic tendencies in life came and went like a sea monster coming from and into the waves. To exist is to be seen, and Dream saw him. 

“You, just you. It’s not often things happen like this.” 

He didn't want to have time to think about it. 

“How come?”

“Subway, the dude with the knife, marble cake, sickness and a thank you, and now this. It’s like things keep happening and we’re just put into it. I don't know. Words aren’t my thing.”

Don't think about it. 

“What is your thing?”

Dream didn't think about it either.

“I could show you.”

The thing below sold. The other thing came out. Blah blah blah. Big deal. Dream’s lips were soft and his hair was even softer, his hip was firm beneath his hand and Sapnap let his hand sneak around. Dream’s hand went to his neck, his back, his thigh, his other hand. He tasted of that cookie thing he’d eaten earlier, almond or chocolate or nutmeg or cinnamon, and Sapnap could feel his breath on his cheek when they parted, only for a moment, and his eyes went to Dream’s face, over the slant of his shoulder, and to the sculpture being auctioned below. 

Sheer cold.

He feigned pulling out his phone to check a message. 

“Shit,” he said, and how could he have failed his drama class in high school with that acting? Breathless, unconcerned, “My friend texted me.”

Dream’s face was in his shoulder, breathy, warm. 

“Something important?”

“Yeah. Seems so. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s cool,” Dream pulled his head back, smiling at him and with a blush scattered over his cheeks, “Do you want me to come find him with you?”

“Nah, it’s,” he breathed in, Acting, see? “It’s probably best I find him myself, okay?”

Dream nodded, and while he seemed a little disappointed he didn't appear upset. 

“Alright,” he said, “I mean. I have your number, so we could do this again. Well, maybe not this. Something, yeah? I’ll buzz you or something”

“Yeah,” Sapnap said, “Text me.”

He exchanged a goodbye, letting Dream kiss him again as the other man trailed his hand around the pulse on Sapnap’s wrist, and left him behind on the balcony to find George. 

Seconds later, he saw George check his phone, excuse himself, and move to meet him near the pillar on the far side of the room. Privacy in the public eye. They were being watched. 

“What?”

“That’s from my gallery.”

George’s face went ashen. 

A sculpture, one he knew. ‘Roll of Tape’, 5x2x5 inch, silver, diamond encrusted. Approximate value, sixteen million, current bid eighteen million sat on the cushion at the auction and was only going up. 

It went like this. Discussion, nonsense on nonsense until a decision was made, with George heading outside and Sapnap staying inside for the reason that he didn't smoke, and he shot a text and deleted a number before he had the chance to see a response. George came back, phone in hand. ‘Roll of Tape’ sold, twenty-two million. A certain blonde left the building. Ten minutes later, and he was being taken in for questioning, Bad’s hand on his back and an ill, sinking feeling in his gut. Over fifty arrests. 

Yes officer, I attended the party

Yes officer, I saw the sculpture.

Yes officer, I work at that gallery.

No officer, I was not invited directly.

No officer, I do not associate with criminals.

His phone didn't buzz when he was in questioning. It didn't buzz when he got it back. It didn't buzz as he tried to get to sleep that night, and it didn't buzz all day long. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have ideas now. No idea if they're any good, but as much as I enjoyed subway time I also thought like, uhh, how am I supposed to do like anything with that. 
> 
> The party was hard to write, so let me know what you think! If there's errors or anything too let me know, since I cannot be asked to read it all again it's 10pm I have stuff to do tomorrow lmaooo 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments, kudos and bookmarks are brilliant ;)


	3. Chapter 3

As if he’d get off that easily. As if they’d let him go home just as quickly as he came in. As if they wouldn't suspect him too.

“So you’re saying that you were invited as George’s plus one?”

He nodded.

“He is an algorithm designer for Mr Apricot?”

“From what I know, yeah.”

“You never asked George for clarification?”

“I knew it was something to do with code, about money, about art, but not much else. None of those are exactly my speciality, if you get what I mean.”

“You didn't ask?”

“People don't talk about money, anyway,” Sapnap shrugged, “And since I don’t enjoy it, it didn't really occur to me to worry about it.”

Officer Meyers leaned back in her chair, looking him up and down as if secrets were going to seep out of his skin at any moment when he relaxed his shoulders and stopped biting his tongue, but he just looked at her, comfortable in the hard plastic seat, smelling the antiseptic and basking in the tube lights. They were the kind of things you got ten of for the price of one, and were found in every office building, school or supermarket around the country.

It was like being at home, aside from the lack of good conversation or dour silence. He wasn't being unruly, per say, just awkward. Short answers made long questions. Long questions made short answers. Meyers wasn't grasping that, but she was grasping at straws. 

Sapnap knew Bad was just outside the room, and if not there, inside the building. They had a busy night of taking a hundred statements and testimonies, and it seemed his least favourite cop had her turn at pulling his fingernails. Sapnap wouldn't bite though, wouldn't bark or growl. Meyers could poke all she wanted for all he cared. Nothing to hide, aside from the thing he could brush over with a practiced lie.

“And did you know anyone else there?”

“No.”

“Talk to anyone?”

“Nah.”

“What did you do when you were there?”

“Came in, went to the bar with George, stayed there for a bit with him and he went to talk to his boss. Went to the buffet, then onto the balcony because it was quieter to watch the auction. When the sculpture I recognised came on I got George and, well, you kind of know the rest.”

“Was your ‘Dream’ guy there?”

“No.”

“That’s funny,” Meyer said, leaning back, and Sapnap couldn't quite recognise the look in her eye as she pulled something out of a nearby brown file. 

The file itself was unmarked, but wrinkled as if it had been through quite a few hands before reaching hers, and the papers she withdrew were on heavy card stock, almost glossy on the back, and Sapnap realised that they were photographs. She put one on the table in front of him so that he could see the grainy image, colourless, of him standing near a blonde man at the buffet table. 

The icky feeling of being watched wasn't just paranoia, then, and the rich asshole running the place cared a little too much about the art that wasn't his. 

“What can you tell me about this man?”

“He was beside me and ate an almond cookie thing, I don't know what it was.”

“Anything else?”

“I don't know, what can you tell me?”

Officer Meyer huffed, her eyes going thin as she looked him up and down, and even with Sapnap’s unwise confidence she seemed a little taken aback at his brazen attitude. He wasn't doing it for show, though, he genuinely wanted to know what they knew for the sake of his own skin, since there was only so long you could handle fire licking you before you had to say something about it.

“It’s our turn to ask questions,” she told him, “So what can you tell me about this man?”

“He was blonde?” Sapnap made a show of squinting at the grainy image, “Maybe in black? I remember him just coming up to me, didn’t talk to me, and there was nothing I thought was important. Why?”

Officer Meyer squinted at him in the harsh light of the interrogation room, and even with it shing in his eyes, Sapnap hoped and prayed that looking up at her over his nose was the right action to make. 

“You got lucky, Sapnap,” Bad told him as if he didn't know.

Sapnap just stayed quiet, looking at the road through the front window as Bad drove him home and wondering about a thousand things at once. Nothing would give him answers and it was about time that he stopped trying to find them, since all it did was either raise more questions or pull him further into the mud. Bad had stopped at the lights, and Sapnap turned his gaze to look out onto the street instead, at the still melting snow and the amber streetlights which marked the early AM hours of his neighbourhood. Maybe another fifteen minutes, and he’d be taking off his dress shoes before he trudged snow over the thinning carpet of his living room/kitchen/dining room/computer room. He was still in the damned suit, and he’d have to be careful not to get anything on it before giving it back to George. 

“Did you know the camera feeds had been cut when the auction stated? When you started talking to Meyer like that?”

“Would you really believe me if I said yes?”

Bad shook his head and the car started moving again, and through the grill of the cop car which separated the front and the back, he could see the frown on Bad’s usually cheerful face, and he could sympathize. An unfortunate fact. 

But he just sighed before saying, “don't do it again. Meyer and the Detective Inspector aren't going to let you off easily. And… be honest with me here. Did you know that guy?”

“Which one?”

Play dumb, play dumb.

Bad knew him.

“The blonde guy, you know who I mean. It’s not like I’m talking about anyone else here.”

Sapnap could see the green light of another interchange warp and change shape in Bad’s glasses, and he wondered briefly if the other man could see when the lights were disrupted by his glasses. If he could see anything else in a totally different way to how Sapnap saw them, like how things worked, or a different shade of grey. His feet hurt.

“No,” Sapnap said.

“Promise?”

He nodded, and he made eye contact with Bad in the cop car’s rear-view mirror. A tenuous moment later, and they looked away from one another, Bad to the road and Sapnap to his snow-stained shoes. The leather would be ruined, he realised, and knew that he didn't have the polish to fix them before giving them back to George. 

You could have called him Dolly Parton but he’d been let off early. Four in the morning, head in his hands, the Monday migraine wouldn't leave. 

Uneventful shift. No messages at the tone, no movement on the cameras, and he felt like he needed to shake an apparition off. The lights didn't care for the migraine, for him at all, and the train screeched along the tracks like it was trying to shake him off its tail. The next stop was next. There was always another stop, even if Sapnap never intended to go and get it. 

Stop. Hiss of the breaks. Doors open, person on, doors close. Hiss of the engine. Movement. 

He glanced up. The floor was more interesting. 

Dream just sighed and sat opposite him instead of next to him, his leather jacket had been replaced with a waxed jacket, brown, but the shirt underneath was a green-blue kind of colour and it just made him look sad. Sapnap didn't feel much for conversation, not much for living to be honest, and he didn't move or say anything as Dream took his seat and sat with his elbows on his knees in front of him. 

“I think we should talk,” Dream said with a voice calm enough to soothe a rabid dog, but it was unfortunate that Sapnap was a little bit smarter than that.

“About what?” he asked.

Play dumb, play dumb, and maybe Dream would disappear into mist. 

“Just… what happened.”

“About me calling the police?”

“About our misunderstanding.”

Sapnap barked a laugh, harsh and indifferent. Dream’s face didn't change, but he was staring at the same spot between them, where their feet hardly touched and the floor had a strange looking mark on the plastic surface. It was cold enough to be called cold on the train, but Dream nor Sapnap shivered as the phantom underground wind blew through the train around them, rustling their hair like someone trying to sooth them. He took deep breaths to calm himself, to stop the throb in his head and the heavy feeling in the back of his skull from taking over and falling forward. When Sapnap hadn't revived the conversation, Dream finally spoke up.

“If I knew, I wouldn't have tried,” he stated, “Just. I know it’s wrong, you don't have to tell me, and I really wish you didn't get dragged into it like that.”

“Gee, thanks,” Sapnap bit out, looking up through his fringe at Dream’s tired looking face.

He couldn’t find it within himself to feel bad though. What the other man got up to in his own time was up to him and none of Sapnap’s business, and if Dream spent it killing himself on lack of sleep he wasn’t about to step in and try and change it. Honestly, he might just follow in his footsteps a little, save him the money. 

When Dream didn't say anything more though, Sapnap took the bait.

“What the fuck even got you into that anyway?”

And wasn't that the question.

Why, why, why? Why did Dream feel the need to gamble his freedom for a chance at whatever the hell he got from it? Why art? Why not corner stores or jewels? Why did he frequent New York when he didn't come from there? His accent wasn't the typical Brooklyn drawl or Queen’s twang, or the Manhattan fake or the upstate slur. Southern, almost, a bit like his own but definitely not. They were similar enough to be compared but so different from one another that there was no use in trying. So why did Sapnap make the connection anyway?

“I’ll sound greedy, but with less than six inches between me and homelessness, I felt like I needed the money.”

“What bled you dry?”

Drugs, alcohol, debt, medical bills, family, friends, gambling, food, other vices and sins, and there were a million other things to sink money into if you felt so inclined to. Sapnap knew – the takeaway poisonous pierogi from the polish place down the road was enough to break his piggy for, ill-advised or not, good for him or no, but what was it? Why, why, why? 

“I flunked college, depression and all that,” he said, “but they don’t care so much about you failing so much as they do about getting their money, so they bled me for anything that wasn’t nailed down. I considered selling a kidney, but just in case you need to know, I still got two.”

Sapnap didn't exactly have sympathy for him, but at least Dream wasn't one of those idiots who got on something and couldn't nip it in the bud. 

“Was there really not another option?”

“Didn't feel like it.”

Sapnap did snort then, and Dream looked up at him with something akin to shock or displeasure on his face, and he opened his mouth to say something. 

“Yeah, thanks. Laugh at the guy with no options.”

“You say to me. There is always another option. Might be complete shit, but living somewhere like here there’s always a store, a food joint, a hot dog stand or a car wash looking for some sucker to sink hours into.”

“Yeah, Mr Nightguard? What do you know about that shit?”

“Plenty,” Sapnap told him, “coming from someone who spent his last dime on a scratch card before hitting the streets, that ten bucks saved my life. I was late on rent six months in a row, working two jobs. I’m not going to pretend I get your situation, because I don't doubt you don't know mine, but really? ‘No other options’? What is this, a fucking coming of age flick?”

“You still have a job though, huh?” Dream was glaring at him, on the edge of his seat like he was going to reach over and strangle him, “Yeah. You know those people who got arrested? Those people bidding on shit art that cost too damn much? That was my rent money, my food fund, everything. It’s gone now because of you and your idiot friend.”

“So get a job,” Sapnap said, “I don't know. Don't get mad at me for dealing on the wrong side.”

“I thought I could trust you.”

“I don't know what made you think that, since you don't even _know me_ , Clay. You don't know my last name, my address, the name of my dead dog or dead ambitions, you don't know my blood type, my favourite food, my preferred colour of shoe or Netflix password. You don't _know me,_ and stop acting like I know you.”

Dream didn't say anything. Sapnap just shook his head, and when the subway screeched to a stop he stood and left the train. 

But Dream followed him. Sapnap stopped on the platform and turned to look at the other man. No one else was in the station, not on his side or the other, and Dream stood tall as a statue between him and where he had once been like a bridge between what he had wanted and no longer could have. The train rattled off, and the light indicating that it was gone turned green. The phantom wind followed it into the tunnel, and his eyes felt dry. Ten minutes for the next train. Dream’s stop was after his. 

“Why the fuck are you still here?” Sapnap spat. The migraine throbbed, a separate entity in his head, not himself. 

“We shouldn't blame each other for this,” Dream said quietly, and all the fight in him was gone. 

The hot sweat, the fire in his belly, the dread in his heart and burn in his lungs were all the aftershocks now, and Sapnap was just tired. Tired of lying to his friends. Tired of being sickly. Tired of the night shift and dealing with all of this in the morning. They were just a bunch of independent weirdos trying to belong, and Sapnap was tired of pretending he was something else. 

“Who should we blame?” Sapnap asked, but it wasn't really a question. He knew the answer. 

“I don't know,” Dream said, “The people who buy art, the people who make it, the people who inspire the artists, the people who want art in the first place. Human nature, maybe, or the rich weirdos that buy us out as objects. When I'm here, doing anything, I feel like I'm doing it for someone else. I watch TV for the person who made the TV, Who made the TV show, who wrote the script or owns the program, or the station it's running on. When I eat food, it’s not for my hunger but for the person employing me so I can keep working, for the person I bought the food off, the person in the checkout and their salary, the owner of the store, the person who owns the monopoly. I don’t steal for me, Sapnap. Not really. Do you work for yourself?”

Sapnap looked at him. Dream’s hair looked rough, even though it'd been maybe 36 hours since he had last seen the man. Seven days’ worth of dirt in his hair. He’d been putting his hands through it. 

“I work for money,” Sapnap said.

“Yeah? And you use the money for you? It only goes to you? Not siphoned out of you like blood?”

“We can't just… we can't just blame _everyone else!_ ” Sapnap shouted, and it echoed out of the subway station, “We aren’t, like, here for a grander scheme, or some fucking capitalist big wig, or a semblance of relatable Earth. If we think like that we’ll die, there’s – we can't.”

He could feel the cold breeze outside seeping down his neck, through his coat and work shirt and undershirt and skin, and he wished he could peel it all off. Nothing felt good, not even Dream’s eyes on him, not even the promise of going home soon. The conversation would linger, he could tell, through a shower, though sleep and through days at a time, and now it was stuck here. 

He didn't own himself. Dream didn't either. No one did unless they were at the very top, and even then it was still up for debate. 

But before Dream could say anything – he’d opened his mouth to do just that – Sapnap was already coming off the bench swinging. 

“I get it,” he spat, “I get the horrible feeling of not being enough of yourself to count as your own person, but this shit-head individualism you’ve got isn't good for anyone, not for me or for you. It’s dangerous, what you’re doing, throwing other people under the bus like that, thinking your actions are for you alone. If you or any other spider-like thief crawled their way into my place of work then that would be it for me – no work, no rent money, no food money, no bed. Sucks to be you, with your buyers dried up, but those big wigs and black tie-ers didn't give a shit about you. You used your fake name with them too right?”

He didn't wait for Dream to nod.

“Yeah, you did, because if they were caught they could list that name instead of your own. You don't own yourself, don’t get to use your own name, I don't own me, and neither of us have our real names sewn into our sweatpants and baseball hats. If you had been caught, you wouldn't know their names either. You wouldn't be able to rat on the main guy, their associates. You need to understand me. You’ve talked a lot of hype about your own thing, your own bills and rent and woes, but you get me? You pretend you do. Two of my best friends are cops, Dream. They asked me about you when I called you by that name. You don't know this, but I _lied_ to them. I’ve been lying for weeks, and I'm running out of skin on my teeth. How long till the enamel wears thin and we get to bone? How long until my gums bleed and you expect me to go further?”

Sapnap paused for breath. Dream didn't say anything, just looked at him with those annoying green eyes. His hands were in his pockets, and Sapnap continued. 

“If this continues, if you keep on this business of inadvertently trying to get me fired and ruining your own life in the process, we can't be friends. We can't even look at each other, or pretend to know one another like we have been doing. I need you to do me a favour. I need you to find the source of your parts in life and run them under hot water to scrub them clean before trying again with anything to do with me. I’m not going to get arrested for your sake. I’m not even going to pretend that I will. You’ve got rent, but so do I. I’ve got bills, blood, the need to eat and the need to stay alive as much as you do, but when it comes down to it, I need to put myself first.”

Sapnap looked at him. He was like a soda can that had been crushed under someone’s foot, two-dimensional, cardboard, and a sad impression of what Sapnap had once thought he was. The train indicating its arrival flipped to red a second too late to be called anything but obvious. He finished his damning blow as the next train came into the station and began to slow to a halt.

“If you ever get out of this and you still remember my name, talk to me, but if not, then this is it. I’m not wasting my time on someone who could get me killed.”

The train came to a halt, and for the first time in minutes, Dream spoke aloud.

“I won't get you killed,” he said. 

“No, but you could get me fired, arrested, forced onto the streets and starved. You blame everyone else for their parts in your life as much as you want, but currently, it’s you who’s trying to own me. Now get on that train and get out of my sight.” 

Dream didn't say anything. He didn't say anything as he got on the train, as he found a seat and the back of his head faced Sapnap. He didn't say anything as the train doors closed, airlock, and as it pulled away from the station. 

Sapnap watched as it screeched, pulled away, and dragged Dream willingly into the darkness of the tunnel. His breathing was heavy, ran a mile while he wasn't looking, and the migraine was demanding attention now, an influence outside of his control. In the ugly old light of the tiled subway station, Sapnap stood with the ghosts on the platform, waiting for the train signal to flip to green and announce the end to the silent conversation. Who knew how long it would take. It wasn't up to him. 

The mind stays up all night, but for Sapnap that was fairly normal. Night owl habits and night owl survival ensured it, but that didn't mean it was pleasant. 

The screens displaying the security feed hummed with the need to stay running, even though they must have been over ten, twenty, years old. Nearly as old as his own existence, nearly as old as his perceived reality. The guy who owned the place could afford new screens, but he could also afford new staff, so Sapnap kept quiet. Seventeen bucks an hour felt like nothing at the best of times to him, but to some it was everything, and to the people even further up it definitely was nothing. 

Such was life. He wasn't going to start stealing stuff to make up for it like _some_ people did. 

He did make up for the boredom by having George on loudspeaker, his tin-crusted voice coming through the microphone on the other side. It wasn't that George’s microphone was bad, more so that the speaker was getting ill from being dropped in slush, so it wasn't the greatest. 

“So how is the recovery?” Sapnap asked as he flicked from camera E-4 to E-5, where he had seen those guys trying to get in before, but everything was quiet. Some weeds blustered in the wind, their shadows from the streetlights looking as much like fingers as any other long stranded foliage, and through the grainy texture of the feed he could almost make out the dead flowers on them. 

“Not good,” George didn't sound bitter, or worried, or otherwise too badly affected, but Sapnap knew to trust the words more than the emotion that steeped it. 

“How come?”

George laughed, a short, bitter thing, a bit like how someone would laugh at a dying dog’s antics, and Sapnap turned his gaze to the little phone on the desk, at the black mirror surface of it, and at George on the other side. 

“Want to talk about it?” Sapnap drew his eyes away. It was a bit like watching someone cry in an exam, like something he wasn't supposed to pay attention to, even if he wanted to. 

“No,” George said, “but I will. My boss, the head guy, got arrested at that party. Turns out that I’ve been helping fuel his illegal purchasing of artwork which was a cover for some other crap. Everything I've been doing up until this point has been illegal, even though I didn't realise it.”

Sapnap winced at the implications of what George was saying, about him technically being guilty and of his job security no longer being so secure. 

“He tried to throw me under the bus,” George told him, quiet as if someone was listening in. 

Uncaring for line tappers, Sapnap asked, “Boss-man?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Shit,” Sapnap looked up at the ceiling, at the fire alarm and the smiley sticker he’d noticed before, and he asked, “they believe him?”

“Couldn't be too careful. I unveiled everything at my job, everything on my hard drive to them to prove I was in the green. If I wasn't such a stickler for keeping numbers then I wouldn't be talking to you now, Sapnap.”

“They’d put you on bail,” he said, “I could get you out.”

“You and whose money?”

“Mine.”

“It always becomes someone else’s though,” George laughed again, the same shrivelled prune of what it could be, “So yeah. I’m trying to find something else but there’s only so much you can do when the place you’ve worked for since 2016 turns out to be a front. All I've heard is ‘No’s. No one wants me, aside from the place I'm at already.”

Sapnap looked at the phone again. Its blank screen reflected one of the screens, A-2, which was pointing at ‘Lady in Grey’ on the second floor. George didn't suit her. 

“They want you back? Legit?”

“Second in command offered me a raise, but it’s deeper in. No more using my own computer, so they can ditch it all if they or I get caught.”

George’s voice was a mystery, a fish at the bottom of a cold, dead lake, and Sapnap couldn't see its scales from the water. Something was up, calls from inside the house, books stacked on their side instead of upright, or leaning.

“George,” Sapnap said, “What are you thinking.”

“I think I need to get out before it becomes too tempting to stay.”

“You want to stay?”

“Not really, but I’ll be out of the public eye, making double what I used to. I know it sounds bad, but I still have commitments, you know? If I don't get anything soon and I want to keep my apartment, then yeah, I think I’ll have to.”

Sapnap forgot how to breathe for a second, like he was in a vacuum and had to hold his breath to keep living, and in the blue room it was hard to think of anything else. He felt alive, even if he was blue, but for how much longer he needed to question. 

“I don't think you should,” Sapnap said, voice on the edge of a beg, “Even if you end up living somewhere else, or, I don't know, have to sell some stuff, I don't think getting involved in this is a good idea, George, it’s like a pitch of quicksand. You run or walk, intend to get out in five minutes, but you still sink into it eventually. Before you know you’ll be up to your neck.”

“Well,” George huffed, “If you know anyone who’s willing to hire an ex-criminal assister who specialises in finances to do with fine art, let me know. Is your boss in the clear too?”

Sapnap didn't give him a response. He could hear George sigh before he kept talking.

“This is the thing. People you confide in will take it and run, and then the people they run to will do the same. Nothing is a secret, just information held back. Unless it happens when we’re completely alone and only to us, and we don't tell anyone, then it’s bound to become public knowledge. It’s a damn chain, where one link gets rusted and it makes the other ones rust too, but to those further down the chain they don't see it happening, so they say it doesn't happen to them. It does, they just don't realise it. Sapnap, when I ask you this it’s because it happened to me and I didn't realise until it was too late: _Is your boss in the clear?_ ” 

“I don't know,” he said.

“Right. This is the thing. We don't know. We’ll never know until we do, and when we do it’s too late.” George sighed, but didn't pause before he continued, “Sapnap, the longer I look at the people around me the more I realise that people aren't here to be coddled or because they find it interesting, so take my word on this. People want money, and one of the easiest ways to hike up the value on something is to apply it to something which has a value that's hard to define. My entire job was making up numbers and applying them to artwork, and all it was based on was what those kinds of things had been sold for in the past. Artist name, medium, size, and even then you got idiots willing to slap on a few more million. I realise now that it was money laundering, but back then I just saw it as capitalism. People hike up the prices on absolute garbage so that they can make a profit, even if it’s worth nothing. I’m not saying art has no value, but it has no _defined_ value. There isn't a handbook, just guesses.”

“We can't just blame everyone else,” Sapnap said, but it sounded weak to his own ears.

“I know we can't, and I’m not saying we should, but I am saying we need to be careful. Or for me, more careful than I have been already. It’s like everywhere I damn turn there’s a pile of cockroaches offering me gold. I don't want to be greedy, but with everything going on in life it’s better to be a little bit in the green than skirting the curtain call. It’s just a shame that it’s all built this way, almost like it’s intentionally made to make us fight at the bottom like dogs and crawl after this fantasy of being able to put our feet up. It shouldn't be like this, and yet here we are. The questioning comes not when we debate if it should change, but how. And I don't know. That’s when we run out of answers.” 

Sapnap put his head in his hands, and even though he wasn't the one looking for answers, the questions still came out from the darkness beneath the table and looked him square in the eye. George didn't know about Dream, about anything to do with him or the conversation he had with him at the party, on the subway, or before. He didn't know anything about the man, and yet they were talking about almost the same thing to him, raising the same questions, talking the same talk, and wondering about the same kinds of solutions. 

He sat in the blue tinted room and wondered about a lot of things, too many to detail, but existence was high on that list. 

That kind of thing never boded well.

Wednesday was uneventful, and his Thursday was spent in the same four walls watching the same twenty screens and thinking the same things over and over again. His sandwich from _Sally’s_ had been consumed, savoured and forgotten about, save for the wrapper that was still on the desk, and he was just about to think about the marble cake in his bag when his phone screen lit up the room. 

His background of his lock screen – George’s cat Moss – looked at him, and the message was blurred on account of how bright the screen was in the room. The screen faded to its off state, but then it flashed up again, the vibration and noise were turned off but it might as well have been a beacon calling his name directly, singling him out in a crowded room, but everyone he cared about knew to call him if they wanted an answer immediately. He wasn't supposed to use his phone at work, and so he left it to marinade in the crud on the desk.

The room was the colour of cloud cover now that they’d replaced the blue tinted screens with a few better one, but it was still an off-blue which seeped into every surface and stained them the same colour. He could almost feel the sepia seat, but it was washed out, killed in broad daylight, and no longer able to be told apart from the grey floor. The phone flashed on again, a third message, before it went quiet and dark once more. 

He had some bubble gum in his bag, he remembered, so maybe it was time to give his thoughts a chew. 

Six in the morning, Sapnap cooked eggs and his phone started to shake and scream ‘Don't Fear the Reaper’ on the corner table of his living room/kitchen/dining room. 

He didn't turn away from his eggs immediately, letting the opening of the song play before he moved over to the surface to look at the name displayed at the top of the phone. He picked it up, spatula on the other hand, and answered and put it on loudspeaker, putting the phone on the counter next to him as he continued to cook.

“What’s up?” He asked as the egg tried to spit at him. Some of the oil caught on his white shirt, but it was almost laundry day, so he didn't mind so much. 

His cooker was greasy, oil stained, but he hadn't had an opportunity to clean it in a while so he hadn't bothered trying to find a different excuse. Similarly to his bedroom, the walls were stained yellow from the rebranded sunlight coming through his thin curtains, which he kept closed to hide the glare, and yet it was still fairly bright in there. The refrigerator hummed, the people upstairs were moving around in their own space, and the day's traffic was just starting to pick up momentum outside. Sapnap’s sock-covered feet slid over the linoleum in practiced movements to stop him from slipping, and he could feel crumbs through the fabric, but not enough to disturb him. It was cool in the room, not cold, and he could tell that the earliest days of spring were finally ready to peak through the snow. 

“Sapnap,” Bad said, and he put the spatula down.

Not ‘Sappy’, not ‘Sap-napper’, not even Nick. Something was bad, and not just his friend. 

“Y-yeah?”

“You are so gosh darn lucky, and so gosh darn stupid. What were you thinking! What on earth is wrong with you!” 

Bad continued to rant, and Sapnap turned off the stove before ferrying the egg into the awaiting bun, but he didn't take a bite just yet, too busy trying to figure out what Bad was talking about. 

“Bad,” he said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Dream!”

His sandwich looked awful, actually. Terrible sandwich. Might as well have just been sand. He forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat, but he still felt it beat on the way down, still felt it move inside him like something alive, and he somehow managed to respond despite it.

“... Yeah?”

Bad huffed on the other end of the line, and while Sapnap hated not being able to talk to people face-to-face for days on end, he was suddenly glad of it in that moment. His voice was stern, something that reminded him of all the horrible people he’d moved away from by appearing here, and he hoped in some distant part of his head that Bad wouldn't become one of those people. He knew he wouldn't, but in the times that reminded him of history, it wouldn't do any harm to hope. 

“The guy we were looking for, blonde, skinny-ish, smile like a demon, _Dream_ , just came to the station. He’s got a folder filled, I mean _filled_ , with information. Names, addresses, numbers, descriptions, photographs, you name it. It’s everything he’s ever stolen, everyone he’s ever dealt with, and he said, no joke, he’s doing it because you said he should and is asking to be let off scot free if he hands it over.”

There were a million things. Denial, his sandwich, Bad’s voice, Dream’s actions, his sandwich, his apparent role in Dream’s actions, his sandwich. He should really eat that before the egg got cold. Nothing was worse than a cold egg, apart from maybe whatever Dream had been up to in the two days since he had last seen the man.

“Look, I’m not supposed to be telling you this,” Bad was continuing without knowing if Sapnap was listening, “But depending on what this guy says they might send someone around to bring you to the station. Not necessarily arrest you, but depending on what he says it’s a possibility. Sapnap, please, _please_ don't do what you did when Officer Meyers questioned you after the party. _Please_ come clean. This is the breaking point for us, so depending on what you do, this might be the last time we speak! I don't want to do that.”

Even without being able to see him, Sapnap could feel the emotion seeping off Bad’s voice and into the air around him, and he couldn't help but cringe at how it made him feel, but more importantly, how he’d made Bad feel. All because of his own selfish desires, the deep-seated urge within him for a human-to-human connection, and the poorly thought through execution of the past month. He didn't have future sight, despite what food poisoning and signs in the tea-leaves told him, and now the future had come to find him. 

Bad seemed to be waiting for him to say something, and while Sapnap could hardly make the tongue-turned-sponge in his mouth move, he managed to ask a question anyway.

“Got any advice for me?”

“Yeah,” Bad spat, “Tell the truth. Depending on what you and this Dream guy say, you could get out of here without a problem. Keep an ear out. Wear something warm. I’ve just heard the word; someone’s coming to get you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're losing some of the atmosphere to drive the plot forward, but I still hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Again, not sure when the next one will be up, but I'm aiming for this to be a four chapter story now.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

He could really go for a fried banana right about now. 

He’d already spilt his guts twice that day, once when his boss had phoned up and fired him for being late (didn't matter if he was behind held up by cops, and if anything, that made it worse), and once when Bad did the puppy eyes (while Zak threatened to jail him, friendship be damned), so a fried banana and subsequent allergic reaction to said banana would really hit the spot. Just the right spots. Hopefully the right spots to kill him. 

At least he wasn't the only one. Fluorescent lights, moving room, floor that had seen too many washes and not enough replacement, it was almost like being on the subway, only now he was in the world’s busiest police station and a million people were asking him questions. He hadn't been in many police stations, but he assumed not all of them were this busy. They asked him; what colour shirt was this guy wearing? What is four to the power of five? How many fingers am I holding behind my back? It was like taking off a kid's glasses and asking him to read the board, only Sapnap was four-eyes and he didn't have the patience to read, only repeat what he had seen. 

He’d told it like this;

  
Various issues like a magazine on the subway, dude carrying boxes, frames and anything else, which way, whichever, up the island or down, and he got talking after the guy with the knife decided the time was now. He was bordering on 24-hours without sleep, and he talked about finding Dream again, how they got talking, about their conversation end. He talked about his job, the blue room, the sepia hue of the curtains when he went to sleep at noon, and the warmth of a slice of marble cake in the back of his bag, crushed between his thigh and rolled up mag’. He mentioned in passing the train crawling to a stop, the shift of shoulders, the glance away, the thoughts of shyness rather than a thing to hide in the sway. 

He talked about freelance work, the crease of Dream’s jacket on his shoulder, the moon in the clear sky as he thought about it on the wander home. His breath had been visible that night. He thought about anything else. Pierogi, short changed, and illness came and went. Dream held his hair (or did he imagine it?) as he tried not to die, and the exchange of sandwiches as if they were rings. Bad’s call, the interrogation, and the person he’d presumed was in on an unfunny joke.

But why would he question it? 

George’s offer, the night shift and privacy. He’d seen a certain blonde man accept a gift. Dream’s hair covering Sapnap’s view of his face. The poles in the subway car had been shiny from someone else’s hand rubbing off the paint, and yet Sapnap didn't mourn the loss. 

Night shift, the hand by the back door, an indication on the footage that they wanted something ‘not yours’, and Sapnap pulling the alarm, hollering the number when Bad came, the bonus and the mentioning of Dream’s name. Like a celebrity. Marble cake, coffee, the train north-bound, and the person who looked a little too tired to have just been asleep. An exchange of personality, another vow on the Saturday, suit, tie, buffet table and the auction house. He didn't hide the blush as he told them of that night, but they didn't care about the interaction they’d had so much as his act of Cinderella. 

Questions at midnight, and realisations galore. He’d made a promise to Bad and talked about keeping it with Dream. The talk with George, and now this. Head in his hands, he wanted a glass of water, and the officers in the room took his piece and ran to tell the next guy all about it. 

He still walked as a free man. Technically. But the handcuff did chafe. Singular. 

It was a technique, one not often talked about but still used, where they’d keep someone in for questioning longer than perhaps necessary in order for the accused to get desperate and give them more info, because technically they were not doing anything wrong in denying him another cup of water after he’d already had one. It was just that the previous one was smaller than the palm of his hand, and he didn't have time to get dressed and also have some water before he was whisked off to the station. So now he was parched, not just by the sand in his mouth but by the bulbs above him.

George was there too. George still walked as a free man, even if he claimed Sapnap had taken it away from him. He wasn't the one in a cuff, singular, though, and he was still complaining loud enough to shake the room. 

Maybe it was just Sapnap he was shaking, though. The room they were in was cold, screaming silently ‘you don't belong here’, but the ‘hang in there’ poster with the cat on the wall was pretty nice. 

“I can't believe this,” George said, as it was happening in front of his very eyes, “Why did you tell them that the second in command offered me a job? You think this is funny?”

“I think I’m getting all of us out of jail,” Sapnap said, and the other side of the cuff rattled against the chair he sat in, “And besides, it’s not like I chose to come here by my own free will, you know. You’re acting like I had a choice.”

“You had a choice to get involved with that guy.”

“And you had a choice to take your job. You didn't know they were criminals until it was too late, and I didn't know he was either. Sit down.”

George took a seat in one of the sanitized chairs and put his elbows on his knees, holding his face in his cold hands as he looked down at the scuffed-up floor. Sapnap just watched him. Since George had already given them information, proved his innocence once, twice, he was able to get around without any handcuffs on him and instead someone kept a close eye on them through the mirror instead. The lights above them were the same throughout the building, and the chairs were bolted to the floor. The only thing he could see that could potentially be moved were either themselves or the door handle, which stayed still for the time being. 

Sapnap felt like he needed to wash his hair, change his shirt, maybe have a nap for an hour or ten, and then have a banana. A whole truck of bananas. Enough to make any monkey jealous. There was a place near George’s that had a whole deep-fried sundae, which might have been nice if he could eat it right then, but even still, if he walked out of there then he planned to make a booking. He didn't want to die, but the delirium of an illness-fuelled day off could sometimes feel cathartic when it was over. George looked like he needed a truck of bananas, too. 

“They took my hard drive again,” George said quietly after a few minutes of silence, and he looked up at Sapnap when he was still hunched over, “Phone, laptop, computer, and I’m fairly certain that they’re going through everything written down, too. I already gave them every name I could remember. Do you think they’re looking for something out of me or finding the next guy in the chain?”

Sapnap just looked at him, his arm still sticking out awkwardly from where it was cuffed to the chair, and the other one held over his stomach to stop it from rumbling. 

“Don’t know,” he said, “maybe it’s something past. Like looking in a tainted silver mirror, thinking about the good old days, when really it's made of lead. Past cases. Who knows?”

George didn't say anything, but he kept eye contact until a dude in blue came in the room. Another officer stood behind the man, but they were just in uniform. The guy came in and said, “George, please follow me.” 

They swapped eye contact, traced the look on one another’s face, and George moved to get up. 

It could have been a minute, it could have been an hour, a day, month, whatever, that Sapnap sat in the holding room alone. He still couldn't move his arm and they didn't seem to care for the fact, as no one came to talk to him as well. One of the lights was humming, and all it needed was a moth to go with it before it would feel like home, and yet Sapnap still insisted on blinding himself by looking into it. 

Even with the pulse of life feeding through his veins, he didn't quite feel alive at that specific moment. He didn't know what time it was, how long he’d been awake. It was past his bedtime, his day time, and possibly even into his next day/night. Working late got his times messed up, and he didn't know when to sleep or when to stay awake, but either way he fought the graininess in his head until someone came to announce his inevitable jail time. There was no way he’d walk a free man. He was poor, uneducated and a small man in a big city. He was exactly the kind of person that they put in jail for the hell of it, and yet when George came back he didn't look roughed up. 

George wasn't like him in a lot of ways. He was middle-class, a graduate, and someone who could swim if it came to it, and yet seeing him come back did fill Sapnap with some hope. 

Before he could ask George, though, the big man called his name. 

The dude in the suit, he might add, not God. 

No richer, no poorer. No wiser or stupider. No sicker or healthier. No northerner or southerner. 

Yet somehow, he’d cheated the system. 

“I can't believe it,” George said when the subway pulled into the station. 

George had debated getting a taxi pretty ferociously with Sapnap, and while he could admit that a taxi was more comfortable, there was also the fear of the driver listening in. The subway would always offer a privacy hard to come by in modern times, yet in the three-am crawl home, George could admit that the silence of the subway was a necessary evil. 

He was even too quiet to complain about the train that turned up – one straight out of the 80s and covered in graffiti on every wall and window with only the seats and floor spared. Regardless, they boarded, found a seat in the abandoned car, and felt the train press ‘go’. 

Something here was reminiscent of days gone by, but Sapnap couldn't tell what. The problem with living in the present was forgetting the past, and as the train snaked its way beneath the unknowing streets above them, he finally remembered to respond. 

“No, I can't either.”

Sapnap leaned back in the seat as he said it, watching the tunnel rush by outside the covered window, and after his twenty-one-hour stint at the police station he felt weirdly refreshed by the cold air. Still tired, just better. 

“Is it more the fact that we didn't get arrested or we both got jobs out of it for you?”

“Are you joking? Both. I’m surprised to be alive right now, too.” 

George chuckled, “Me too. The chief looked like he wanted to kill me as he said it, but I guess that’s just how he needs to do things. Presentation, and all that.”

“It’s crazy.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Is this really such an issue that they need both of us though?”

“Guess so. They just want you for surveillance though, right? Not necessarily art.”

“Nah,” Sapnap said, closing his eyes, “Not necessarily art, but for now, art. You’re just art though, right?”

“‘Identifying stolen artwork from legitimate ones at auction’, he said. Apparently he meant eBay too, so not all glamorous. It’s also to do with someone above him, though, so I might need to break out the interview suit yet.” 

“Climbing the ladder.”

“Hardly.” 

Sapnap’s eyes trailed from the silver hand rails to the swinging handles above them, and the equally painted doors of the train. Somehow in the graffitied train he felt better than he had in days, no longer in the eerie state of not-quite-alive that he had been in before, in the yellow stained apartment or the blue security room, the browns of George’s house or the silver of the other subway trains, or even the reds and whites of the auction they busted. He existed in the moment in neon and technicolour, a weight off his shoulders, a burden from his brain, and with good company he could watch the way the walls moved and think only of the lumpy mattress waiting for him back home. 

And it was his home now. Funny. He’d been fired and re-hired in a day, of course with consideration of his situation they were not paying him the same as the other guy was, but it was cooler preventing actual criminals rather than petty theft anyway. His job before the gallery was sitting beside the door and keeping an eye on energy drinks and the energy drinkers, and it had been a step up to get the one he’d just lost, and now this was a step up further. How long till he reached the top? A long time, but he was taking it a step at a time.

No hope reaching the peak of holy mountains, but he could still feel spiritual along the way. George was further up, not really waiting but still in sight. Hope for short distance, and memory of the long.

“You feeling better about it then?”

“Huh?”

“Life,” George explained, “The other day on the phone you seemed sad. Like when I was telling you about my options.”

“I guess I was.”

He could see himself through the glass, broken into pieces by the spray paint lines, kind of thing. Looking at George and his body talking as the train rattled outside, and he felt an unwavering otherness in his own head. Sometimes you can imagine looking at yourself when you’re asleep, in a liminal space like a parking lot or an elevator, but here Sapnap didn't feel watched as much as he was comforted. He could see that he was safe from the fixed perspective outside the train, and he felt no qualms in opening his eyes to re-enter reality. 

“How come?”

“I had a conversation, yours was like an echo of it – nowhere near the same but it pressed the same buttons and hit the same beats. It just… I know its dumb, but I felt like I was alone in my opinion.”

“Of?”

“‘Crime bad’. Like, I get your situation, and I sort of get the other guy’s too – “

“You mean Dream’s.”

Sapnap didn't say anything for a second. George was looking at him. 

“I get feeling helpless,” Sapnap said, “And I was feeling it. And I guess yours and Dream’s conversations made me feel like I was making the wrong decision by being in a shit job that wouldn't get me into trouble, especially since, well, life is kind of unfair, you know?”

“So is your opinion different now?”

Sapnap shrugged, sighing.

“Not really,” he said, “I don't think we should do those things because it kinds of cheats others out of it. Like, I said to Dream that his ‘cheat the system’ also cheats me out of a job, and then my house, food, and everything else if he isn't careful. It’s a problem higher up, higher than me or you, and there’s not really a whole thing in place that causes or solves it. We're not black and white, good or evil, it’s just a bunch of idiots trying to do something that works for them and for everyone else and, well, it doesn't always work. Stuck in the middle of years of this shit and the only thing I comment on is a unique wind. Terrible.”

“You’ve thought about this.”

“Long silences. When you crack the casket open you realise something bad gets worse. Maggots, you know.”

George nodded, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. 

“Are you still talking to Dream?”

“Naw.”

“You planning on it?”

Sapnap shrugged, and George’s coat moved with it. 

“Haven't heard from him,” he said, “that idiot turned over all that information like it was pancakes and didn't even think about whether or not they’d give him a chance to say more than hello. He might be behind bars for all I know.” 

“Bailing him out?”

“Me and what money?”

George chuckled. 

“And if you see him again?”

“Dunno,” he said as the train approached his stop, “Guess I’ll test the waters when we reach the shore.”

“Stop with the metaphors.”

“No.”

April.

He knew someone with that name once, but now it was the face of 30 days of the year and he couldn't bring himself to miss it. Not the time before it, not the person, and not the time after April had been and gone. 

Subway. He frequented 232nd Street and took the line from south to north, no longer trapped in three yellow rooms and instead in four off-white ones, further from George but still one line away. The rent was no cheaper, just the same, but he found he preferred it when the shower didn't leak and the sink didn't feel the need to join it, and he thought about that hot water running down his back on the seven-thirty train home. Seven-thirty pm, that was. His shift at the New York Public Library was kinder than the one at the gallery, even if it paid almost the same for more hours, and he got to read on the job. Bonus. 

But as the golden hour sunlight came through the quiet train, no longer relegated to the underground of 72nd street, Sapnap’s car pulled to a stop and waited for the passengers to alight and get on the line. Someone came onto his, and as he looked up, both he and the stranger stopped.

“Huh,” Dream said, “Long time no see.”

Sapnap was motionless, eyes never leaving the gorgon as he took his seat across the car and leant back in his seat. He was almost identical to all of Sapnap’s memories of him, from the leather jacket to the red converse, now weather beaten and greyed, and his hair was even longer, still blonde, but no longer dirty looking and it was tied back. He had a dress shirt on beneath his jacket, although he was still in a pair of faded blue jeans, and Sapnap’s thoughts wandered as Dream put his hand on his thigh. 

“I don't know if you want to hear it,” Dream said, “but they offered me a job.”

Sapnap managed to swallow, or unswallow his tongue, and asked Dream, “Who?”

“The police.”

Now that was a surprising change. As if Dream didn't realise what Sapnap’s expression meant, he pulled a small leather rectangle out of his inside breast pocket of the jacket and showed it to Sapnap. A small, golden badge, which passed into view and out of it too quickly to read, was on the inside of the case, and Dream put it back where it belonged. Without it in his hand, he looked like any other schmuck on the subway, but Sapnap still raised his eyebrows at him when he knew it was there. 

Even though the sun was still streaming through the window, the slight skidding of rain appeared on the glass, smeared across like insects on a windscreen, and Sapnap shuddered at the memory of how cold it could be. Even with a coat, walking in a downpour was never fun, but Dream was a distraction from it. Not a nice one, not a bad one, but a distraction. 

“I’m a detective, technically. I can't make arrests but they wanted me for being in on it, and, I’m sure you can imagine, they bugged the fuck out of me and my apartment to make sure I’m not doing anything. I’m not, just… by the way.”

It was both a welcome and a strange realisation, thinking about how they were essentially strangers now. There was no contact for two months now, and the last time he’d seen the other man was when he had told him to get his act together, but now, supposedly, he’d changed. 

“Why did you turn yourself in?” Sapnap asked, “I mean, no offence, but that was a really stupid thing to do. They dragged me and George back into it, you know.”

“I didn't know that,” Dream said, and he had the decency to look a little guilty, “I mean. I assumed they’d ask you about it, maybe let you tell them the truth, but your friend Zak gave me a hard time about it since they took you in for something like twenty hours, right?”

“So what gives?”

And wasn't that the million-dollar question. Dream didn't seem to realise that his thoughts were only in his head, and Sapnap was tired before of how the other man believed he was broadcasting them. Thankfully, he didn't seem opposed to talking as the rain started to fall against the window, heavy.

“It… I’m going to sound like a love sick fool, but Sapnap, what we had was _good_ to me. I enjoyed it, and you telling me to fuck off hurt. It was for the better though. I got everything I had, all the notes, hits, people’s faces on my old dash cam and phone numbers, the other guys I did the stints with, everything. I didn't really care for any of them, they were just good at what they did, but I’ll be real, you were the first person I'd spoken properly to in _months_ , maybe longer. It was impulsive, more so than anything else, but it somehow worked. I’d heard about the other guys getting less time for giving information, and I hoped that at worst that would be what I got. And I got better. Turns out the police never said I gave them the info, and they just hired me instead. All of it became a front, kind of, more like a lie. They just said they got it themselves, and now I’m doing something else. Undercover, whatever. It sucks that I’m still, like, owned by a system or whatever, but I can see it’s better. Imagine if I didn't. Not too long ago, I wouldn't have.” 

Sapnap listened to him say his words, not sounding rehearsed as much as they did genuine, but he still waited a moment before asking his next question. The lights in the car flickered off and on again as the sun outside dipped, and the gentle patter of rain filled the spaces between their existence, every crack and crevice, the space between hairs, the void between words. 

“Why?”

Dream kept eye contact. 

“What do you mean?”

“Just,” Sapnap uncrossed his legs, leaning forward as well, “Why? Why me? What would you have done if it didn't work out for you? For me?”

“I don't know,” he said, calm as anyone waiting for the next train home, “probably regret it, if I saw you again. I wasn't banking on it, though. I thought that was it, seeing you on the platform telling me to go. I cried that day. Don’t feel bad for me but I did. Fuck, I felt like such a fool because you were right. There was no one to blame but myself for picking that path to take, and it wasn't even the obvious one. You were right, and I saw it then when I couldn't make eye contact on the train. I am still sorry, for what it’s worth, even if it’s behind both of us now.”

Sapnap continued to look at Dream, even when the other man’s gaze finally flickered away, to the yellow-stained lights in the train, to the setting sun on the horizon, to the buildings and rain outside, but he still looked at the emotion on Dream’s face. There was definitely something there, he knew, and he could hear it both by the words he said and the way he said them. There was no doubt, in that moment, when Sapnap finally spoke up again.

“I have coffee,” he said as the train started to slow down to the station before his, the back-and-forth motion beginning to cease. Dream’s annoying green eyes finally returned to his, meeting the warm brown ones with an indescribable intensity. 

“Coffee, huh?” Dream asked, seeing the lead and holding on, “got anything to go with it?”

“Maybe some cake. I’m sure I can get you something else to go with it, if you’re not up for something sweet. We can watch the steam rise.”

Dream’s mouth curled like a bud turning into a leaf, “‘Something else’ sounds interesting, and I hate to be _that_ guy, but is it marble cake?”

Sapnap got a flash back to watching ‘Sleeping Beauty’ for the first time, watching Prince Phillip talk to Princess Aurora when he first heard her sing, and he had to quickly dismiss the thought before his face could go red. He wasn't one to blush, but his cheeks did feel warm. 

“It is,” he said, “Marble cake from _Sally’s_ on 64th, to be exact. I happened to be in the area the other day and bought a whole loaf.”

“I don't know if you knew this, but that’s my favourite cake in the whole world. How did you resist eating it all in one go?”

“I’m a busy man, Mr…?”

Dream got the game. He smiled as he spoke sweetly.

“Call me Clay. And you are…?”

“Nick.”

“Beautiful name.”

Sapnap did blush then, and even though Dream ginned, he didn't comment. The train pulled away from the station, and with his stop being next, Sapnap made a plan. Ball in his court, he hit back. 

“Thank you. What brings you onto the subway, Clay?”

“I’m hoping to just,” Dream sighed dramatically, “Just to get lost for a while, see who’s around. Stress of the job, and all that.” 

“See who’s around?”

“You know, me, you, might be nice to see where things go.”

Sapnap couldn't help it. He put a hand up near his mouth and pressed his second knuckle to his lip, letting it drag the flesh down slightly and expose the smallest amount of teeth , and Dream watched the action as he leant back and put his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. A return to form, he crossed one ankle over his knee and asked with the confidence of someone who had read their lines a thousand times in the mirror beforehand. 

“What do you say?”

The subway was pulling to a stop, the rain outside no longer appearing as a knife’s edge on the glass leading outside, as the night drew closer he could see the lights of New York begin to dissolve like cotton candy; soft, a comforting background character in who he was in the past, and a reminder of the harsh light of ‘now’. Dream was looking at him, eyelashes long and hair longer.

He could go for some marble cake, Sapnap decided. 

“Yeah,” he said, and the subway reached his stop, “Yeah, alright. This your stop?”

“It is if it’s yours, too.”

“It just so happens it is.” 

Dream stood as Sapnap did, and as the other man reached for his hand, Sapnap let him take it. He’d let him take his whole life, too. Dream could pack aftermath in every word or action, every piece of language or imagery he used, and as he looked back at Sapnap to make sure he was okay, he couldn't bring himself to mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can honestly say that 1. I didn't expect to finish this at all, and 2. the response has been way better than I was expecting. Every time I post I am overwhelmed by the responses I get, so thank you all so much for reading <3
> 
> Kudos, comments, and bookmarks really are the best way to let me know if you liked this, so please dont hesitate to let me know :) 
> 
> Thanks again!

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, someone on Tumblr wrote "subway au" and I was like YES but then they meant the sandwich shop.  
> Naturally, I had to do it myself. 
> 
> Let me know what you think! this is a work in progress, which for me usually means it'll be abandoned, so comments, kudos, bookmarks, or any ideas for what you want to be included or explored are really, really useful to me right now. The easiest way to tell me is on here, but just in case, you can tell me on Anon on my Tumblr: https://turtle-ier.tumblr.com
> 
> I dont support the shipping of real life people, which is why this piece is set in an AU based more so on their personas rather than them as irl people. As far as I'm currently aware, Dream and Sapnap are fine with fanfiction being written about them at this time, but if shipping content is considered incorrect by the creators in the future, or just fanfiction at all, this work will be deleted. The last thing I want to do is offend them or make them uncomfortable.
> 
> Thanks again!
> 
> Find me on Tumblr: @turtle-ier  
> Find me on Twitter: @Turtle_ier


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